


The Whole Planet Was Taking Aim at the Future

by delgaserasca



Category: Spooks | MI-5
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:03:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delgaserasca/pseuds/delgaserasca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tariq owns a lot of things. Eventually one of them is Dimitri.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Whole Planet Was Taking Aim at the Future

  
**the whole planet was taking aim at our future.**   


 

 

That was when our love began for me, though late,  
the way a flock of darkness settles over your shoulders.  
 **–– from richard jackson’s _message here_**

 

 

The first time Tariq took Dimitri home – well, no. Not the first time. The first time there hadn’t been time to peruse the surroundings. He remembers a hallway, a cabinet, walls he’d stumbled into or been pushed up against, Tariq clumsy and insistent and _happy_ , so happy, like no–one Dimitri had known in years, his whole life perhaps. Between negotiating Tariq’s fumbling and shirt and jeans, and pushing him onto his bed, there hadn’t been time to peer through carefully closed doors, or at photos that lined the walls and mantle. Even the next morning, when Dimitri had found Tariq in the kitchen, clad only in his boxers and trying to make breakfast – and when was the last time that anyone had made him breakfast? – the doors to the rest of the flat were firmly shut. The kitchen table was clear.

Unable to pass up the distraction, Dimitri had pressed himself up along Tariq’s slim back, leant close and whispered, "Good morning," littering kisses along the curve of his ear, the nape of his neck, his hands flat against Tariq’s stomach, and his fingers wandering into the waistband of his boxers.

Tariq had leaned into the touch with small, quiet sigh. "Good morning. I thought you might— I mean— uh. Tea?"

"Later."

"Okay."

Breakfast had been abandoned on the counter, the kettle snapping off as Dimitri led Tariq back into the bedroom.

So no, not the first time, nor the second when Beth had helped Dimitri practically carry Tariq back to his place after a few sambucas too many. Unable to locate the light switch, they’d staggered down the hall, a three–man band of sorts. "I told you this was a bad idea," Dimitri had muttered, Tariq murmuring quiet but increasingly dirty things into his ear.

Beth had laughed. "We’re going to have leverage on him for years. Who knew he’d be such a heavyweight, though? I thought he’d be done by the second beer." In fact, Tariq had more than held his own until the shots, and then all bets were called off. He was a happy drunk, giggling with Sam from Section B over— something, Dimitri hadn’t been sure, too distracted by the way Tariq would laugh into his shirt, louder as the night went on.

"How did you know where the bedroom was?" Beth asked after they’d deposited Tariq in the bed, and Dimitri had fetched a glass of water from the kitchen, leaving it on the far–side dresser in the hope that Tariq wouldn’t wake in the night and knock it over on the way to the bathroom.

"Lucky guess."

Beth had raised an eyebrow, smirking knowingly.

"Shut up. Where do you want dropping off?"

A week later – during which an increasing number of post–it notes had passed between Tariq and Beth’s computers, until one morning Tariq had come in to find his monitors wallpapered in bright pink squares, and Beth subsequently found that all her favourites had been reprogrammed to go to a site featuring dancing badgers – a week later, Dimitri showed up at Tariq’s door, Chinese takeaway and charming smile in hand. Tariq had grinned on opening the door, then ushered him in, joking that his usual Chinese didn’t do deliveries, and how he’d have to go further afield if this was what service was like at – a pause to check the bag – The Golden Dragon, all the while throwing glances over his shoulder, as though convincing himself that Dimitri was really there.

Which is how they’d arrived here: Tariq pulling plates of assorted design from his cupboards, ladling out the food, and bitching good–naturedly about Beth’s ill–fated revenge plans, whilst Dimitri stands in the doorway, looking around curiously.

"Come on," Tariq says, brushing past, his hands full. "We can eat in the front room. Bring the bag?"

It isn’t that Tariq is untidy, although Dimitri can see a few places where he’d eschewed organising in favour of heaping things in precarious piles – it isn’t even that Tariq is any more ordered at work. But standing in the door between the kitchen and the lounge, Dimitri is struck by the whole range of things he doesn’t know about Tariq. There are photos on the walls and across the mantel; there are some on the fridge, tacked up with magnets that are also holding up takeaway menus and a list of dates for when the council will come to collect the bins. The surfaces, too, are casually collated with life: an A–Z of London, a couple of books, newspapers, gadget magazines. There’s a set of keys that Dimitri recognises, next to—well, another set of keys, though the latter is more chains than keys. In once glance around the room Dimitri sees a television, a complicated sound system, trailing wires and cables, a PS3 and what looks to be an Xbox. Along the wall he counts three–and–a–half pairs of trainers, an umbrella, a coat, two jumpers, two mugs – an incongruence of pairs, as though Tariq were sharing his space, though Dimitri knows his cousin moved out a few months ago.

Tariq looks up from the sofa, suddenly quiet. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing," Dimitri answers, a little too quick to reassure. "You have a lot of—stuff."

Tariq makes a quick appraisal of the room. "No more than anyone else," he says, but he sounds unsure, as though trying to see it through Dimitri’s eyes. "I mean—"

"It’s fine, Tariq," Dimitri cuts him off, shrugging off his jacket and moving to sit down. "It’s nice. I like it." He nods at the plate in Tariq’s hand, changing the subject. "You done playing Dinnerladies?" And like that Tariq’s frown is gone, broken up by a smile. Tariq tears into his chow mein like a dying man, and Dimitri laughs at his enthusiasm, getting up to get a glass of water when he inevitably chokes. Watching Tariq empty the glass, Dimitri feels fond and surprised all over again that this could be his to have – that this boy, so easy to smile, would want to share this with him.

 

 

He thinks about it, though. About his own apartment, spartan in comparison. He thinks about how all his plates match because they were a leftover from an ex–girlfriend and he’s never used more than one at a time. He thinks about the television in his living room, the only thing he’d bothered to spend proper money on, and how little he uses it; how the only radio in the flat is the one that’s part of the alarm clock he’s toted around since university. The tuner is defunct, but it still bleats shrilly enough at five every morning. He has some books, and about ten CDs stacked neatly in a stand in his lounge. The furniture is part of the rental. The apartment had come furnished with the bare essentials – a table, a sofa, a bed and a bookshelf. Little else, and already surfeit to his requirements. His landlady had spent 45 minutes going over an itinerary when he first moved in, inordinately proud that the one sofa was made of real leather, and that the cold floors were varnished hardwood. She seemed pleased that she could offer him a bed and a bathroom, a kitchen with Formica counters but no other mod cons. Dimitri hadn’t cared. He’d just wanted somewhere warm, clean, and with a shower. There had to be a shower. (There was.)

He has a couple of photos – most are on his laptop in emails from his parents, and from Eleni, his sister – one of his family the day before his first tour, and one of Eleni and his niece. Most of the books he owns are from Eleni, too. He doesn’t especially mourn the distance between him and his family – there’s a reason he went to sea – but he thinks of Tariq who used to live with his cousin, and who always has messages on his phone from aunts and uncles, his cousins, his parents – an abundance of people whom Tariq loves and who want to know if he’s free for badminton next Friday – _hey, bruv, we still good for Lubna Khala’s, innit?_

Dimitri wonders, not for the first time, what Tariq makes of him, what he sees when he looks at Dimitri, whose clothes are plain, well–pressed and functional, and whose hair is still close–shaved in the military style. Tariq’s hair is long, unruly and thick; Dimitri loves it. He loves to run his fingers through it, tugging gently on the ends when he wants Tariq’s attention, or gripping tightly so he can hold his face in place for another kiss, one more and then I have to go, just one more— It’s always in Tariq’s face, and Dimitri can’t imagine – has tried, but cannot fathom – Tariq cutting it to a more manageable length.

One night, a few months after whatever it is between them started, Dimitri sits on his real leather sofa and wonders if it isn’t time to buy something. A DVD player, maybe, some sort of concession to being alive. Something to show Tariq that his life didn’t stop when he joined the military. It’s Saturday night, the time he would usually start to get restless, a little bored. Tariq is with family, some sort of religious thing he couldn’t get out of – "I don’t really, I mean, it’ll be good to see everyone, but –" and Dimitri, waving him off – "no, no, it’s fine, go, I’ll survive. Go be with your family—" Go be with people who love you, he’d thought at the time, and ignored the part of him that said, _and me, me too_. Tariq is in East London, and Dimitri is at home, pondering the finer points of internet shopping. He tries to think about Saturday nights before Tariq. What had he done to fill the time? The first couple of weekends he’d still had boxes to unpack, clothes, cutlery, groceries that he’d bought and planned on using, convinced he’d start living well now that we was out of the Forces. And then Lucas had taken him out for a drink; him, Ruth, Tariq, and Harry begging off but showing up at 8.30 anyway. He’d gone running, yes, watched television, X–Factor or something, and then a film that he couldn’t remember. Drank a beer. Drank another. Snapped the ring on the can in front of the television by himself and wondered whether or not he could be bothered to order food.

He’d walked, too, pulled on his coat, pushed his hands into his pockets and wandered out of his urban suburbia and onto the street, watching tourists bustle, the city lit up from inside and him, walking quickly, no destination in mind. He couldn’t call his friends; most had stayed home, and few were close by. Dimitri is suffering a dearth of people, by his own admission a fault of his own. If he bought a DVD player he could watch a film he was actually interested in. He could buy films to watch. He could talk to Tariq about those films, and then he might have something to contribute to their conversations. Not that contributing was always necessary. When Dimitri had first met Tariq he’d made the mistake of thinking him quiet. A month later, on confessing this out loud, Tariq had laughed, and gone shy at the edges. "You’re very serious."

"I said hello, smiled, and shook your hand. What’s serious about that?"

"You smiled seriously," Tariq had said in earnest. "You were all spit and polish, with barely any hair."

"So," Dimitri had said, letting the comments sink in, "you found me… intimidating?" He’d frowned, not liking the way that had sounded.

"I found you different," Tariq had amended, kindly.

"Different."

"Completely. Young, attractive—"

"Oh, _attractive_. Tell me more!"

"—a bit, I don’t know, straight–laced."

"So. Boring."

"Oh, no." Expecting a joke at his expense, Dimitri had been surprised to see Tariq smile, gentle and fond. "Not boring. Never that." He’d cocked his head, the smile becoming a grin, and Dimitri couldn’t help himself, he had to kiss that look off his face, had to have it all to himself.

Thinking of it now, Dimitri thinks Tariq’s first thought was right. His life, such as it is, is boring. Save those few occasions when work tries to prove him very, very wrong, life is mostly recon and reports, and trying to see how long he can stay on the grid before Ruth raises an eyebrow in his direction. It hadn’t worried him, though, this cycle of days. He’s in control of his actions, much more than when he was with the SBS, and even if all he does now is nothing, at least it’s a nothing he has chosen for himself. He has windows, can look out and see grass, concrete, trees, an awesome absence of water, water, so much water that it used to seep into his dreams, the close quarters with his team cycling through camaraderie, irritation, and back again. Life at Thames House suited him, sedate but still interesting. The team seems more functional now, and he doesn’t mind so much when his co–workers make space for themselves in his life. When Beth had arrived, she’d instigated going to the pub once a week, using alcohol to prise details of his life from his iron–clad mental grip. Ruth, too, was a source of endless questions – how were his parents, his sister, was everyone well, had he heard from them lately, or his friends, did he have plans, shouldn’t he be heading home now, didn’t he have better places to be? – all of which slowly condensed into one very pointed look which has Dimitri reaching for his coat before he can think better of it.

He had never felt alone, a result of his big Greek family where everyone was always in everyone else’s business, and being in close quarters with up to fifty men for the greater part of a year. He had spent his life craving solitude, peace in which to think, peace from his team, his parents, Eleni; respite from school in the holidays; respite from home in the term. But here he is, suddenly without mooring now that Tariq has other plans.

He looks at the laptop again. A DVD player, then, and some films, ones he missed by being away.

And a lamp, sure. Why not.

 

 

Of course, Tariq’s first time at Dimitri’s coincides with the arrival of his purchases, thereby negating the whole point of them. Something in Dimitri goes sour at the curious look on Tariq’s face, and he hustles the boxes out of sight.

"You didn’t tell me your player had busted," Tariq says, and Dimitri stills, confused. "I could have given you one. I’ve got a spare from when Ahmed was here. He ditched it when he left – laptop, you know—" and so on, following Dimitri into the flat, blithely unaware of his emotional turmoil. It’s only when Tariq starts talking about not needing his own player now that he’s got a new computer that Dimitri understands – Tariq has misunderstood the purchase, has assumed that Dimitri is replacing one he’s lost. He has no idea that Dimitri doesn’t consider the DVD player an essential part of his life.

He pauses in the doorway as Tariq proceeds to make himself at home, jacket off and slung over the back of a chair, leaning against the table as though he were at home. As soon as the thought strikes, it’s all Dimitri can think of – Tariq living with him, his trainers lined up by the door, his clothes in Dimitri’s cupboards, his things – his books, his photos, his gadgets – how they would look in Dimitri’s apartment; how well they would belong.

He becomes aware of a break in the verbal stream of consciousness that usually indicates that Tariq is awake. Tariq is looking at him, concerned.

"Is it a bad time?"

Dimitri gives a smile; never leave, he thinks, be here always. "It’s never a bad time," he says out loud, coming into the room properly. "Do you want a drink?"

Tariq grins, reassured. "Yeah, coke would be great if you’ve got it."

Whilst Dimitri heads for the kitchen, he knows Tariq must be taking in his surroundings, the way Dimitri had when he’d finally got a proper look at Tariq’s place. It’s not that Dimitri’s been putting off bringing Tariq home, though he’s put the thought out of his mind on more than one occasion. It’s just that Tariq’s is closer to work, and he normally has to go there before heading out again because so much of his gear is there, and when there’s a lot to do, Dimitri knows, has always known that Ruth’s non–verbal chastising only sends Tariq out the building, not off the clock, and certainly not to bed. There’s been no reason to bring Tariq home yet. He always goes to him, or follows him home from work. Dimitri heading straight home is usually an indicator that they’re too tired to speak, let alone anything involving more vigorous blood flow. And now Tariq is here, he’s in the next room in amongst Dimitri’s rented possessions, probably wondering why Dimitri doesn’t have any photos on display.

When Dimitri hands Tariq the coke, he takes it with a smile. "So. Give me the tour?" His throat is a long line that Dimitri wants to rub his face against, and as Tariq swallows, Dimitri feels it again, want, molten in his gut, so strongly that he’s moving before he can think better of it, taking Tariq’s face in his hands and kissing him firmly. The first brush of his tongue across Tariq’s mouth is not an entreaty so much as a demand, and Tariq opens up beneath him, lips sugar–sweet from the coke, and a little bitter underneath that, the way he always tastes. Tariq shifts his hips subtly, letting his legs fall open so Dimitri can step between them, and Dimitri thinks, yes, more, thinks of Tariq in his bed and groans. He takes Tariq’s hand and tugs insistently. "Come on. You can have the tour later."

Later – after – they amble reluctantly from the bed, clad only in their underwear, Dimitri pointing out the rooms as they go ("Bathroom. Kitchen. Living room. Office—" "Office?" "There’s nothing in it.") and Tariq sets up the DVD player whilst Dimitri orders a pizza. By the time he’s done, Tariq is kneeling in front of the TV, turning the player around in his hands, searching out the ports. "Where’s the stand?" he asks, fiddling with one of the lines.

"What stand?"

"For this," Tariq says, nodding at the player.

"Oh." He hadn’t got that far, he thinks. "There isn’t one."

That makes Tariq look up. "You just leave it at the floor?" He grimaces when Dimitri shrugs a non–answer, taking it for the affirmative. "I’ll bring you Ahmed’s," he says. "He’s not using it, and I only trip over it every time I go into the back room."

"You don’t have to—"

Tariq gives him a look, part exasperated, part fond. "Dimitri. I want to. You know, waste not, want not, and all that."

He pulls the player’s empty box across the floor and positions it under the television, putting the player on top. Dimitri’s not sure the box is going to last that way, but Tariq seems satisfied, sitting back on his haunches and appraising his work. He gives Dimitri a grin, proud of his accomplishments, and Dimitri can only laugh, amused and warm, and endlessly tender.

When the pizza arrives they sit on the floor in Dimitri’s lounge under his newly erected lamp, pressed together along one side whilst Tariq browses through the new DVDs, offering up wry synopses based on the cover images and making Dimitri laugh. Afterwards, Dimitri pushes the boxes aside and pulls Tariq into the middle of the floor, pushing him gently onto his back and covering the long lean length of him until there’s barely a breath between them.

 

 

In early February, amidst growing political tensions, Dimitri spends three days in Yemen trying to convince a university lecturer, Haitham, to defect to the West. His local liaison, a woman named Selam who was recruited by Six in '09, looks at him with scepticism when he arrives, but is civil, briefing him on the target's last known location and close associates. She also talks to him briefly about tensions in Aden. "That Karman woman is talking again, and people are listening," she says, sounding oddly irritated. "She has done good things for our people, but Yemen is like a bonfire waiting to be lit. All it will take is one spark."

Dimitri is actually offshore when the demonstrations in Aden kick off, with the military letting tear gas off in the large crowds. He's on a merchant navy ship trying to get a communiqué from Ruth about the uprising in Egypt, worried it will disturb his exit route, when Selam bursts into the cabin with the news. "They are shooting the people," she says, frantic. "We must leave tonight or you will never have what you came for."

And he never does. Haitham panics at the eruption of chaos in Aden, suddenly faced with what his defection might mean for him, and Dimitri loses him in the heart of the city. Empty–handed, and with his egress via the Red Sea cut off, Dimitri eventually manages to get on a trawler that takes him through the dangerous waters around the Horn of Africa and lands him in Kenya. He hopes Selam is able to get in touch with Control and updated them on his change of pans, but he can't be certain of anything and so proceeds under the assumption that no–one is coming to get him. From the Kenyan coast it's a day's journey by road to Nairobi where he's able to talk to someone from Six, convince them of who he is, and get a flight back to London. It's gone midnight when he reaches Thames House; Lucas is waiting for him, relieved to see him in one piece, and the debrief is cursory. He sends Dimitri off with a full debrief scheduled for the following day.

Dusty, stiff with sweat and days–long exhaustion, Dimitri all but falls into a cab. Unthinkingly he directs the driver to the east of the city, not south, and is surprised when they pull to a stop outside Tariq's apartment. After paying the cab fare, Dimitri stands on the pavement and looks up to where he thinks Tariq's window is. There is a key rattling amongst the loose change in his jeans, slipped hastily into his pocket from the drawer in his desk on the grid where he had left it before leaving for Yemen. A split–second decision, but a weighty one nonetheless. The metal is warm in his hand and despite the chill winter air, Dimitri is sweating. He remembers Tariq leaving it on the kitchen counter for him, between inhaling his coffee and searching for his bag, too casual to be anything less than a meaningful gesture. It was still on the table when Tariq came back from the front room, but Dimitri had quickly snuck it into his pocket, terrified at the prospect, but unwilling to let Tariq rescind the offer, unspoken though it was.

Should he go up? Tariq is probably sleeping; he's spent the week trundling through footage sent to Section D from the Sister Service's man in Damascus, and Dimitri knows from experience that it's gruelling work. For all he knows, Tariq isn't even up there. Maybe he should knock? But, no, it would wake him if he were asleep, and he'd look at Dimitri askance and ask what happened to the key. He should go home. He is going to go home. Any moment now. Definitely heading back. Right...now.

The key turns easily in the lock, and Dimitri pads in gingerly, trying not to smack his case on the doorframe. He leaves it against the wall in the hall, and turns towards the bedroom when he hears a noise from the back room. Cautiously heading in that direction, he steps carefully around Tariq's furniture until— yes, there's a glow from beneath the door to the workroom. Dimitri shakes his head with wry amusement; he's still awake. About to head through, the door abruptly swings open, startling him. "God—!"

"What the—?"

Tariq startles too, though he has more reason to be surprised. He drops his phone, and there's a moment of confusion as he tries to work out if he should be scared and where the hell he's lost the phone. Dimitri bends to retrieve it.

"This is why you can't have nice things," he says, handing it back.

"You scared me!"

" _You_ scared _me_!" Dimitri laughs, his pulse still racing. "I'm back," he adds redundantly.

"So I see," Tariq says, stepping into Dimitri's space with a smile to press a kiss to his lips. "You need to shower."

Dimitri raises an eyebrow. "Trying to tell me something?"

"You stink."

"Charming."

Tariq laughs. "Go take a shower, then come to bed. You must be knackered."

It’s true, and Tariq reminds him of the fact. Dimitri’s tempted to forego the shower but he knows he’ll regret it come morning. "I’m sorry it’s so late," he says, turning to retrieve his bag. "I didn’t mean to give you a fright." Saying it out loud makes him doubt himself again. "I’m sorry. I should have gone home."

"Dimitri," Tariq says, his voice soft, but tone lightly exasperated. "I gave you the key so you could use it. Just, Jesus, warn me next time? Text or something."

"Right," Dimitri says, sheepish. He nods towards the bathroom. "I’m going to—"

"Sure," Tariq says, waving him off. "I’ll be in once I’ve shut everything down."

Whilst Dimitri goes to shower, Tariq goes through his usual routine, putting his PC to sleep, and checking the doors and windows before readying for bed. He grins when he sees Dimitri under the shower spray, but leaves him in peace, brushing his teeth then heading back to the bedroom. Dimitri would be disappointed but the week is catching up with him. He turns off the water, quickly towels off, and changes into an old tee and his boxers.

When he pads into the bedroom, Tariq is already under the covers, He’s rolled onto his side, blanket tucked around his shoulders, all the way down to his ankles, his feet sticking out from under the covers. For someone who feels the cold so keenly, Tariq always complains of being too hot when he sleeps. Dimitri thinks of where he was a few nights ago, Selam pulling him from the furious Yemeni crowd. His nostrils had been thick with dust, the air hot and metallic. He’d fought her instinctively, sure he could see Haitham disappearing into the throng. I can reach him, I can, let go of me, he remembers thinking, I can get him— and then Haitham was gone, and Selam was all but dragging him away, her fingernails cutting into his skin. He runs a hand over his arm, still able to feel the marks she’d left behind. A sign of mercy, he thinks, something to remember her fortitude.

He slips under the covers, sliding an arm around Tariq’s waist. Breathing carefully, he eases his knees behind Tariq’s, and his face into Tariq’s neck, using the familiar planes of his body to remind him he is home. Tariq, he realises, is still awake, in that space between waking and slumber, where it’s difficult to peel your eyes; he pushes back into Dimitri’s embrace, his skin warm to the touch.

"I’m glad you came," Tariq murmurs, his voice low and close. Dimitri feels him searching at his waist for Dimitri’s hand and opens his palm, threading their fingers together. "When it went up in Egypt, I was worried. But then there were all these unconfirmed reports from Taiz and Sana’a, and Ruth heard from someone in Section B that they’d lost contact with their people in Aden, and we didn’t hear from you—"

His voice breaks on the last word; Dimitri recalls the thrum of bodies at the demonstration and tightens his hold on Tariq’s hand. Pushing his nose into the hair at the nape of Tariq’s neck, he breathes deeply, reminds himself again of where he is. He presses a kiss behind Tariq’s ear, another to his neck. "I’m here now. I made it," he soothes. "Go to sleep, Tariq."

"I’m glad," Tariq repeats, struggling to turn over in Dimitri’s hold, "I’m glad you came here tonight." Twisting to kiss Dimitri once more, he misses, his lips grazing Dimitri’s jaw, causing something dangerous and unnameable to settle on Dimitri’s chest.

"Me too," Dimitri confesses. "Me too."

 

 

It’s not soon after Yemen that Dimitri realises he feels different in a way that he’s reluctant to put a name to. He and Tariq adjust to a new routine, spending time at one another’s freely, and Dimitri gets caught one morning trying to add his key to Tariq’s keychain. He knows he’s busted when Tariq gently takes the keys from him and easily adds the key to his set. Unable to look him in the eye throughout breakfast, Dimitri recovers when, at the door, Tariq kisses him lightly on the cheek before exiting, leaving Dimitri to gather his wits and lock up. That’s the first time he feels it – this curious tensing of muscles and a slight strain in his chest. It’s a weight he doesn’t want to examine too closely, so he ignores it, locks the door, then takes the stairs two at a time until he can walk the rest of the way with Tariq.

They try to be subtler at work, including Beth in their habits so as not to raise suspicion – coffee for three, lunch for everyone – and Dimitri is sure they’re doing okay save for Beth’s constant grin, and Tariq’s inability to remember anyone’s coffee order except his. Dimitri must have drawn a short straw today because he and Beth are stuck on ten–hour surveillance shifts with Section C who are understaffed since two of their team took a hit in a railway bombing a month before. That they survived the encounter may say something about the kismet that never falls on Section D, but having heard about the recovery process, Dimitri isn’t sure they’ve lucked out.

Until they’re back or the government steals money from somewhere else – not impossible as scenarios go, Dimitri has been led to believe; at least, that’s how he’s taking Ruth’s expressive eyebrows – the other Sections will be lending a helping hand. Except this is the third lamplighting session Dimitri’s pulled in a fortnight. Those odds don’t sound right, and he says as much to Beth who scoffs, taking a sip of her coffee—

"Oh _god_." She winces, but doesn’t spit. "That’s vile."

"What...?"

"This has sugar," she says, waving the cup around, "and milk. And possibly cinnamon." Her face is a picture, if that picture were painted by Picasso. "Tariq fucked up my coffee again. Ugh, yeuch." She pulls off the lid and sniffs the contents of the cup suspiciously, as though maybe it _was_ her order and her taste buds were momentarily confused. "Oh god, that’s horrendous."

Dimitri laughs at her antics. "What did you ask for?"

"Coffee! Pure coffee. Preferably still in the bean!" She’s wearing such a look of horror that Dimitri can’t help but laugh harder. "I hope he’s giving it to you good," Beth adds, effectively shutting him up. "Someone ought to be benefitting from this madness."

Dimitri opens his mouth to object. "Oh, come on," Beth cuts him off. "There is _cinnamon_ in my _plain_ coffee. If you’re not distracting him, I hate to think who is."

Looking steadfastly out the window Dimitri decides, not for the first time, that he really hates surveillance.

The house they are watching has a blue door. The garden is well–kept but the paint on the window frames is peeling. The more he looks at it, the less the picture looks right. By the end of the shift he still can’t place why, but he’s so grateful to leave the stuffy van that he pays it no mind.

Beth jostles his shoulder on the way back to the car. "Pub, yeah?"

"No," Dimitri says, vehemently. "We’ve got to do this again tomorrow and I don’t want to be hungover."

Beth pouts. "We’ve got ten hours until then."

"Which I intend to use for sleep."

"And possibly buggering your lanky IT boyfriend."

"—I have no idea what—"

"—oh, really—"

"Go _home_ , Beth."

Dimitri wonders if the coffee thing is supposed to be a prank that no–one else has cottoned on to. His coffee is always perfect, and Tariq always brings him a packet of crisps if lunch is a sandwich and a can of coke split between them. He has Dimitri’s order down pat. But then Tariq mixes up Ruth’s chai tea with Harry’s Earl Grey, and Dimitri catches Lucas pouring his coffee down the sink, and Beth gets something that smells almost like pumpkin but not quite— well, Dimitri has to re–evaluate his position. He still thinks it’s funny, though he could do without Beth’s bitching for hours on end, and he usually ends up appeasing her by replacing the coffee that Tariq ruins, but he’s touched that Tariq – whose only real affinity is for things with wires and boards and circuitry – manages to remember Dimitri’s sometimes extremely specific tastes.

The surveillance duty continues for another week before Dimitri decides to mention to Harry what a complete waste of time Section C’s latest seems to be which is around the time the weather takes a turn for the worse, and suddenly Dimitri can’t see Tariq for layers upon layers of wool.

"—are those thermals?"

"I get _cold_."

"You look like a convict."

"Don’t think I won’t kick you out of the bed," Tariq says, aiming for jocular, but his pout giving him away. Dimitri hooks his arms under Tariq’s and pulls him close.

"Let’s get you warm, then," he says, and — there, again, that constriction in this chest, like someone is pressing down on his ribs. The feeling follows him around, to the grid, the gym, at Tariq’s and home again. He tries not to dwell on it. Too much. Yes.

Dimitri fails to take much notice of the drop in temperature until late March when three things happen at once: it rains for ten days in a row; Tariq catches a cold; and Section C’s surveillance comes together in a surprising way.

"Fuck," Beth mutters, sat in front of Harry’s desk, reading through the file he’s just passed over to her. Ruth is in the corner of the room, and Dimitri feels too far out of the loop on an op they’ve just spent the good portion of a month on.

"Americans."

"It seems," Harry says, deceptively calm, "that Section C has stumbled upon a heretofore unknown CIA safe house." Of course they have, Dimitri thinks. As if it could be anything else.

"Do the Americans know that we know?" he asks.

"The Americans _don’t_ know, and we don’t either," Harry says, his face a complete mask. "For all intents and purposes your surveillance this month took place three miles away, and you concluded there was nothing of interest there."

Beth shoots Dimitri a look that speaks volumes.

"Except we didn’t, and there was."

"Yes."

This is the problem with being one of the new kids, Dimitri thinks bitterly. Lucas and Ruth don’t seem to have trouble with Harry’s continual pauses, the silences that are heavy with implications that sail past Dimitri without a whisper. He swaps another look with Beth before leaning forward in his seat, elbows on his knees. "So now we—?"

"Carry on as usual," Harry says, looking peevish at having to spell out that much, before dismissing them back onto the grid. Ruth winces sympathetically when she catches Dimitri’s eye, but that’s all. He wants to talk to Lucas, but Lucas has been suspiciously absent of late, so he heads for Tariq’s workstation.

Tariq looks miserable, swaddled into layers, eyes watering; there are used tissues all over his desk, but still he has both hands on the keyboard, typing furiously at something Dimitri can only assume is important. He looks pitiful, his hair wilting as though in deference to his poor state of health. Dimitri wants to tuck him into bed with a bowl of soup and enough cold medicine to knock out a horse.

"Probably best to leave him be," Ruth says, appearing at Dimitri’s shoulder. "As soon as he’s finished what he’s doing, I’ll send him home. But Harry was insistent that Tariq finish his assignment first..." She trails off, looking at Dimitri appraisingly. "Shouldn’t you and Beth be heading out to the surveillance again?" she asks, adding, "Don’t forget, I’m on the third comms channel."

Dimitri frowns. "Wait, that’s what we decided?"

He looks across the room to see Beth’s opinion on events, but she’s already huffing her way into her jacket whilst the intel analysts sensibly keep out of her way. Dimitri throws one more glance at Tariq who is sneezing violently, then goes to grab his coat. It’s going to be a long week.

 

 

And it is. Surveillance is what it is, and not even coffee can appease Beth’s bad mood. Outside the rain is obscuring the windscreen, and the rain is jumping off the tarmac in big drops. On their first four–hour check in, Tariq answers sounding like death. Even Beth softens at the sound, cringing in sympathy. If he’d been on his own, Dimitri would have attempted some words of comfort, but not willing to give Beth more fuel he holds his tongue, offering bland well wishes before he disconnects the line.

When they call in again, four hours later with nothing new to report, someone switches them onto a different channel, and it’s Ruth who answers. Dimitri startles at the unexpected voice before realising that Tariq must have gone home. The idea warms him a little, despite the dreary weather. Ruth confirms his inkling before ending the call, and Dimitri breathes a quiet sigh of relief, Beth watching him with a knowing look. "What?"

"Nothing," she says, smiling. "I didn’t say a word."

They swap shifts with Section C two hours later, the two agents looking as pleased as Beth and Dimitri to be clocking in. Dimitri doesn’t think they have too much to complain about: there are only two of them from Section D whist Section C is rotating through five staff. No–one pulls duty twice in a forty–eight hour window, whereas Dimitri and Beth will be back in the van in ten hours.

Dimitri stops at the co–op on his way to Tariq’s. He’s amassed enough shirts there that he can afford to spend a couple of nights away from his own place, and anyway, he doesn’t feel happy leaving Tariq to suffer by himself. Armed with cough sweets, tissues, ibuprofen, and tinned soup, he lets himself into Tariq’s flat, calling out to announce his arrival. He finds Tariq bundled on the couch in his pyjamas and socks, burrowed beneath a blanket, and drops a kiss onto his head. He’s burning up, and pale, even more than usual.

"How are you feeling?" Dimitri asks. Tariq gives him a distinctly unimpressed look. "That good?"

"Kill me."

"Maybe later," Dimitri laughs. "Did you get any sleep yet?"

Tariq shuffles under the blanket, which Dimitri takes as a shrug, though it’s not at all clear. His voice is rough when he speaks, an octave lower than usual, and softer for it. Dimitri can tell he’s finding it difficult to breathe.

"How went the lamplighting?" Tariq breaks off into a coughing fit, and Dimitri decides on a plan of action: Lemsip, then soup, then sleep. He answers as he heads to the kitchen, switching on the kettle and then rummaging through the cupboards, more confident now that he’s spent more time there.

"Brilliant. Beth was the best company."

"I can imagine."

"Don’t really know what we’re doing," Dimitri confesses, pulling a mug from the cupboard and emptying a sachet into it. He can smell the citrus, and he wonders if there is enough water to make himself some tea, too. "Harry was helpfully unspecific as to our brief, and I couldn’t find Lucas to ask what he thinks." He snaps off the kettle before it comes to a boil, pouring it into the waiting mug. Setting the soup on the stove to heat slowly, he heads back into the lounge.

Tariq accepts the mug gratefully, though not before sneezing. "Haven’t seen Lucas for a couple of days," he says, once he can breathe again. "Harry wanted me cracking some stuff for Special Branch that came through first thing." He takes a sip from the mug and moans. "Oh, that’s _good_."

Dimitri settles down next to him, resting a hand on Tariq’s knee as he slowly makes his way through the Lemsip, and alarmed when he starts to cough again.

"Maybe I should call the doctor?" he says, taking the mug from Tariq’s hands as he doubles over.

"No—" Tariq coughs again. "No, it’s just a cold." He falls back against the cushions with a sigh that rasps in his lungs. "I just need to wait it out. War of attrition, et cetera, et cetera." He waves his hand round in an approximation of a royal wave, and Dimitri can’t be sure, be he thinks it’s another one of those references he’s supposed to get but doesn’t.

Taking his hand, Dimitri runs a thumb over his knuckles. "Let me know if you change your mind." _  
_  
He thinks of sick days when he was little. His mother didn’t believe in man flu – or any flu, to be honest. Unless he was off his feet dying, she’d stock his backpack with cough sweets and send him to school. She believed you could walk a cold off. He’s always hated being sick, and he feels his chest constrict in sympathy when he sees Tariq, normally so upbeat, looking so worn.

When Tariq catches him looking, he tries to pull out from Dimitri’s grip. "You shouldn’t be here," he says. "You can’t afford to catch whatever this is." He makes an attempt at a smile. "I bet you’re a big baby when you’re sick."

Dimitri smiles in return, refusing to rise to the bait. "Pretty much." He takes Tariq’s hand back into his own. "I’m not going anywhere."

"But—"

"No." He looks down at Tariq’s hand clasped in his, and rubs circles into his palm. "Who’ll take care of you if I go home?"

Tariq’s face softens. "You don’t have to—" he says, but breaks off at the conviction in Dimitri’s face. There’s a moment where neither of them know what to say, and Dimitri feels awkward, as though he’s shown too much of his hand. Then Tariq leans back against the cushions, stretching his legs out, and pulling the blanket tighter with his free hand, and like that the tension is gone.

"I really hope that soup’s not burning," he says. "I know what sort of cook you are, and I can’t smell it to know the difference right now." He sniffles, as though to prove the point. "Also, I really like my flat."

"See if I take care of you again—"

"—if I get to keep the roof, it might be a good thing—"

"—you’d be lying on the floor—"

"—on the couch, dude—"

"—knows when anyone would have found you—"

"—sure that soup’s not burning?"

Tariq manages about half the soup before he makes a dash for the bathroom, suddenly and feverishly sick. He almost trips over the blanket on his way, shrugging off Dimitri’s attempts to steady him, the soup spilt over the floor in his wake. Dimitri clears up as much of the soup as possible, and then fetches a glass of water before going to find Tariq who’s slumped on the bathroom floor by the toilet.

"If anyone asks," he croaks, taking the water Dimitri offers, "I’m going to blame the soup."

Between the two of them they manage to get Tariq to the bedroom. Dimitri leaves him on the bed whilst he goes to fetch the blanket from the living room. Tariq’s fever doesn’t break overnight, and he sleeps fitfully, often unable to breathe. In the early hours of the morning, Dimitri rouses him and forces him to swallow some pills with water before pushing him gently onto his side and spooning him from behind. Tariq’s tee is soaked through with sweat, but he’s shivering, and Dimitri pulls the duvet up over both of them to try to sweat it out of him. When it becomes apparent that neither of them is going to get much rest, Dimitri slowly, quietly begins to talk. He starts with his mother’s militaristic stance against sickness, then talks about the one time he’d truly become ill whilst on tour, and how – when they hadn’t been able to medevac him for some reason – the doc had to fit him with an IV to stop him from dehydrating. It was the one time in Dimitri’s life that he’d worried he was dying. Mama Levendis’ no–nonsense approach meant he’d never indulged in self–pity before, but out in the desert, shaking with fever and unable to hold down food, there’d been a couple of days when he hadn’t been sure what was happening to him. The day after his fever had broken, his CO had walked into the med tent, looked him in the eye and nodded. It was the only confirmation Dimitri got that maybe he hadn’t been too far off the mark with his own diagnosis.

When the alarm goes off at six, Dimitri reaches across Tariq to shut it off and realises he’s asleep. Dimitri showers, then leaves more pills on the bedside table, as well as a bowl, his phone, and a note saying he’ll be back as soon as possible, and to call Ruth if he needs anything.

Picking Beth up at Thames House, he drops in on Ruth to give her an update.

She smiles. "I’ll go over in a couple of hours. Make sure he hasn’t suffocated in the duvet." Dimitri has never been more grateful for Ruth’s tact. After Beth’s increasingly more ribald comments, Dimitri is fairly certain Ruth knows about him and Tariq, but unlike Beth, she never asks, and she certainly never insinuates.

The next two days follow a similar pattern, and, worse, the rain takes to falling for hours on end. Flood warnings spring up across the country, and Beth’s mood sours further. Lucas makes fleeting appearances on the grid; Beth gleans from Ruth that he’s on assignment following news about Chinese–led insurgents flying into London, but it can’t be too big a deal because Harry still hasn’t pulled them off this bullshit detail with Section C. Dimitri doesn’t know Lucas very well, except that he’s affable enough for a bloke who spent eight years in a Russian prison, but he thinks something may be going on with him. He sometimes wonders if it would have been easier to get a handle on the guy when he wasn’t Section Chief, but then he’d have worked under Ros Myers, and Dimitri’s heard enough ghost stories to know he might have dodged a bullet there. Tariq had laughed him off when he’d suggested as much – "You’d be safe with Ros so long as you didn’t contract a case of the stupids," – but Dimitri had remained unconvinced.

Beth, too, is concerned, but she doesn’t say much on the topic. Instead she rambles on about the particulars of house sharing with Ruth who seems to be fastidious in some ways and unexpectedly absent–minded in others. "Greek references? Check. Alphabetise a shelf in thirty seconds? Check. Basic understanding of the remote control? Yeah, try again."

Tariq, meanwhile, finally goes to see his GP towards the end of the week, and is prescribed a round of antibiotics that don’t do much for keeping food down, but at least sort out his fever so he can attempt to sleep through the night. Dimitri falls into a rhythm, swinging between Tariq’s flat, the grid, and the surveillance detail. It says something that the best conversation he has all week is when he talks to Tariq for five minutes before sending him to bed again.

Everything is going sedately – mind–numbingly so – until mid–afternoon Friday when Dimitri notices that the car parked up the far end of the road seems familiar. That in itself isn’t cause for alarm, but he can’t remember having seen anyone come out of it, or anyone emerge from a house to go into it. It’s difficult to see through the windscreen as the rain has picked up again, but when it pulls into the street for the third time that shift, Dimitri is near certain it’s the same one. Checking the written log, Dimitri notices that Section C made a similar note the day before.

"Beth—"

"I see them," she says, having cottoned on when Dimitri had started to rifle through the log. "I’m calling it in. Control, this is Alpha."

Dimitri uses the cam fed through the wing mirror to get a closer look at the occupants of the car. The image isn’t the best it could be, considering the weather, but when the shower begins to slow, he can make out two figures, dressed in waterproofs. He feeds the information back to Beth who relays it to Control.

"—unmarked BMW, two occupants, unknown, sighted thrice—"

As Beth gives as much information as they have, Dimitri checks his sidearm. If it comes to it, he might have to take a walk. It’s the worst case scenario, short of anything blowing up, because it means drawing attention to the van. Not that it matters; Dimitri’s sure the occupants of the BMW know they’re there. No–one has approached the safe house yet, and Dimitri is wryly amused at the reality of events: he and Beth are sitting in an unmarked van watching two men in an unmarked car who, for all intents and purposes, are watching them.

"Copy that, Alpha," Ruth’s voice cracks over the comms as the wind picks up outside and Dimitri stifles the impulse to roll his eyes. Doesn’t matter how much tech they have, they always get landed with a radio antenna. "Maintain visual contact, but don’t engage. Control over."

"Copy that, Control." Dimitri swaps a look with Beth. "Shift change in 40 minutes. Instructions on how to proceed, over?"

There’s a moment of static on the line, and Beth glares at the comms box with murderous intent, before Ruth comes back on the line.

"Maintain observation. Do not engage. Over."

Beth pulls her own sidearm from its holster, muttering as she loads it. "Maintain observation? They know we’re here, damn it." She looks at Dimitri, her lips pursed. "What is Harry expecting will come from this?"

Dimitri can only shrug in reply, his finger still on the outbound switch. "Say again, Control? Over."

"Maintain observation, Alpha. Not much else you can do for now. Debrief on return. Copy?"

"Copy that, Control."

"Control out."

"I don’t like this," Beth says, checking the safety on her gun. "We’re sitting ducks. If they’re CIA, they’ve got us. If they’re not CIA, it’s probably a set up and we’ve been sitting in it for the better part of a month." She taps her booted toes against the wall. "This is messed up."

Dimitri agrees, but is unwilling to say so. He’s been in plenty of no–wins to know sometimes you have to ride out a lack of intel and hope you make it out without your pants around your ankles. Increasingly he’s feeling like a scapegoat, and if Beth’s nervous grumbling is anything to go by, she feels the same.

He wishes he could go home, check on Tariq and crawl into bed with him, regardless of his state of health. Things between them seem startlingly simple next to this job.

Section C fail to show at the allotted time, and Dimitri gives them ten minutes – well, nine and change – before calling in to Thames House. The past few times they’ve called in, they’ve gone through to central comms instead of directly to Ruth’s station because she’s been manning the radios in Tariq’s absence. This time is no different, but when Dimitri finally gets through, it’s not Ruth who answers. He wonders if it’s one of the ops analysts – maybe that weedy woman he’s seen flitting between Tariq’s workstation, Records in the basement, and HR on the fifth floor. Whoever she is, she can’t tell him why Section C hasn’t shown, and can’t seem to work her way around the road cams to pinpoint anyone’s location. Whilst Dimitri tries to talk her through the operating system, Beth shoots a text to Ruth, an all–purpose _where are you?_ that cuts to the chase. The two people in the BMW – men, Dimitri can see now – are still there; Dimitri can feel a headache coming on, a sharp tug at his temples, as he tries to tell the analyst to pass the comms over to Ruth.

"That’s it," Beth snaps, as the analyst disappears, ostensibly to get help, but possibly just tired of talking to Dimitri. "Tariq is never allowed to be ill again."

The sound of car doors slamming draws their attention back to the front window. The occupants of the BMW have exited, their waterproofs dry but drawn close, and they’re making their way towards the van.

"What the—?" Beth curses under her breath, a habit which strikes Dimitri as incongruous, but now is not the time. As Beth makes her way to the door of the van, gun in hand, she crouches, looking at Dimitri over her shoulder. "Now what?" she hisses.

Dimitri makes a split–second decision: he calls Tariq.

"Dimitri—?"

"How do I rewire the comms to get through to Harry directly?"

"—use your phone?" Beth heckles.

"It’s not secure," Dimitri snaps.

"Which van?" Tariq asks, interrupting what was sure to be a heated argument. His voice sounds extremely far away, and Dimitri wishes, not for the first time, that Tariq were with them.

"Charlie – one – eight – zero – seven – foxtrot," he recites by rote.

"Okay," Tariq says, coughing, "There should be a dial on the side of the unit. It’s got two wheels. Turn the inside one left three notches, then flip the outbound switch to negative." He pauses. "That’s _down_ , by the way."

"Got it," Dimitri says, doing as he’s told. When he flips the switch, the radio cuts out before flaring up with static.

"You’ll have to search a bit with the outside ring," Tariq continues. "It won’t get you Harry, but it should patch you through to Ruth’s station."

It takes a moment, but the static clears, and he can hear a tapping sound coming from the other end of the line. "Control, this is Alpha, do you read?"

"Dimitri—" Ruth’s voice fills him with false confidence; the two men from the BMW are closing in, though they seem to be slowing down.

"What are they doing?" Beth asks, mostly talking to herself.

"Control," Dimitri says again, phone still in hand, Tariq still at the other end, "we’re getting blocked on the other frequency. Two unknowns have exited the sighted vehicle and are on approach. Please advise, over." He watches as the two men settle themselves against the nearest car – an R–reg Peugeot that’s seen better days. They’re dressed the same but the older of the two is wearing trainers; the other is in wellingtons. He’s got a gun concealed at his waist. Dimitri’s not surprised, but he’s not pleased either.

There’s a scuffle at the other end of the comms, and Dimitri worries he’s not going to get an answer. He’s about to call through again when Ruth reappears. "We’re being strong–armed by Big Sister," she says. At the far end of the van, Beth groans, rolling her eyes. _Six. Of course._ "Sorry. I had to sneak off to supplies before someone heard you."

Dimitri is _fed up_ , ready to exit the van and talk to the two unknowns face–to–face if that means he can get some bloody answers. "The two unknowns are on our location," he repeats, sticking to the call protocols out of a stubborn need to assert some sort of control over a situation that has clearly gone tits up. "Please advise, over."

There’s another click on Ruth’s end before Harry’s voice booms through, clipped in a way that indicates he’s not the angriest he could be, but it’s a close thing. "Do not engage, Alpha. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred pounds. Come home. Control out."

Dimitri glances across at Beth who looks as annoyed as he feels, but the boss said shoot, so Dimitri will shoot. Clambering over the low partition to the driver’s seat, he realises Tariq is still on the phone.

"What’s going on?" Tariq asks, worried.

"Need to go unfuck a fuck up," Dimitri says, falling into uncharacteristic bad habits. "Brief you later."

Throwing his phone aside, he checks his mirror to make sure Beth’s seated before turning the ignition and putting the van into gear. As he goes to take the hand brake off, one of the men from the BMW – the one in wellingtons – straightens and begins the slow walk back to the car. The other looks Dimitri in the eye, smirks, and salutes.

Dimitri swears.

 

 

If there’s one word he learned in his time with the SBS that he still has an especial fondness for, it’s clusterfuck. Admittedly the team had picked it up after three months being tag–teamed by a Navy SEAL unit in Somali territory, but the sheer range of use it had, combined with how satisfying it was to say, meant the team didn’t stop using it when they and the SEALs had parted ways. This, Dimitri thinks, called to Harry’s office like the boy who skipped detention, is definitely a clusterfuck. Beth is with him, though she seems like someone infinitely more suited to being called to the Headmaster’s; seated to her left is a slim–built man in his fifties, with a lot of gray hair. Standing against the far wall is a younger man, rounder in the face and with a hawkish brow. He seems considerably more relaxed than his companion, but neither of them looks all too impressed.

Across the table, Harry’s hands are clasped, his eyes fixed on some unseen point on his desk. No–one is talking. No–one is moving. They have been there for at least five minutes, not talking, not moving, waiting for Ruth to come into the room with the Home Secretary who, no doubt, will be charged by the two strangers to rap some knuckles. Next to him, Beth is practically vibrating with anger; Harry, too, is bristling, his anger noticeable only to those willing to look for it. Dimitri wonders where Harry’s equivalent from Section C is, and why he isn’t present, but it doesn’t seem like the moment to ask.

"Harry," Towers booms, entering the room without preamble, "I’m told you owe these fine gentlemen an apology."

It _is_ a CIA safe house, but more specifically it’s a CIA safe house being run by MI6, secured so that the Americans can hold British–born suspects for questioning with relative impunity. Six had nearly wet themselves at the prospect, knowing that American feet on British soil justified British feet on American soil. Somewhere along the way, one of the higher–ups in Six had decided things would go a lot more smoothly if Five weren’t involved, and after the fiasco that had been Nightingale – Dimitri hadn’t been read in, but he’d heard enough to know it had been trouble; Harry’s eyebrows indicated it was a topic somewhat above Beth and Dimitri’s pay grade – the CIA were more than happy to agree.

Of course, when Section C stumbled on Six and the CIA’s love nest, Harry had seen an opportunity to be one step ahead of the game, which was all well and good until the whole thing unravelled. Despite the fact that the Sister Service had been keeping secrets, Harry, Dimitri and Beth were dealing with the fall out of the surveillance detail. Intel relevant to their op had been withheld. Clearly this was Five’s fault. Right. Of course. Clusterfuck, Dimitri thinks, as loudly as he can. Clusterfuck. _Clusterfuck_.

It’s all very well for Harry, Dimitri thinks after they’ve been dismissed; he’ll get a slap on the wrist from the Home Sec, a warning to keep out of other people’s flowerbeds, and tomorrow will be another day. But Dimitri and Beth still have to write up their – now utterly useless – reports, not to mention the inevitable paperwork that will come their way from over the river about what exactly they had and had not seen. Dimitri wouldn’t be too surprised if the Americans add their own two cents on that score. It would be gratifying if they _had_ seen something, but as they’d wasted the best part of a month on this nonsense with nothing to show but pictures of a very blue door, Dimitri is pretty annoyed at having to run through two – maybe three – reams of paperwork, all to the purpose of ascertaining that absolutely nothing had happened.

"And what the _fuck_ is Nightingale?" Beth asks, sliding into her seat. "All this over something we can’t be read into? Bullshit."

Lucas seems to agree with them, having hovered on the grid whilst they’d been taken to task by Towers in front of Six and the CIA’s representatives, but he’s equally tight–lipped on the subject of Nightingale. Beth is persistent in her interrogation, earning her a verbal put down, but Dimitri switches off, not in the mood and not sure that he cares. Instead, he opens up a new record and starts his report.

When Beth packs it in an hour later, suggesting a round at the pub, Dimitri waves her off. She leaves with Lucas, the two suited men meeting them at the pods. Without a second glance, Beth pushes past them and through the turnstile, not waiting to let them go first. Lucas follows with a grin and a sharp salute.

It’s late when Dimitri finishes. From the look of things he’s the only person on the grid not currently assigned to the overnight. Harry had left almost an hour previous, talking on his phone, clearly still dealing with the aftershocks of the day’s ruin. He’d frowned briefly on seeing Dimitri at his desk, but not being Ruth, only nodded on exit. Dimitri was damned if he was going to leave Thames House without finishing those reports, so he’d flipped to the next page in his notebook and had resumed typing. Not being a natural typist, or a particularly gifted communicator, the debrief reports always took him time but he felt some satisfaction knowing he’d be in bed tomorrow morning whereas Beth, probably hungover, would have to be at her desk by 9am.

The cab to Tariq’s takes altogether too long, and he forgets to stop off for food, so now he’s tired _and_ hungry, and he knows Tariq’s cupboards are bare because he’s the one who’s been stocking them. Unlocking the door to Tariq’s flat, he’s unsurprised to find the lights on. He _is_ surprised not to find Tariq in the living room, or even in his makeshift study. He’d been feeling better that morning, and Dimitri had guessed he’d be back at work on Monday, but he’d been expecting to find Tariq on the sofa, hands glued to a game console and eyes stuck to the TV. Instead, the living room is clear of tissues, consoles stacked under the DVD player, and magazines piled on the coffee table Tariq more frequently uses to dine on. It’s clean, Dimitri realises, or about as clean as it can be with Tariq’s innumerable possessions.

The biggest surprise awaits him in the kitchen where Tariq is stirring something on the stove.

"Tell me that’s not soup," Dimitri says, only half joking. "Or at least tell me there’s bread to go with it."

"Bread and _beer_ ," Tariq says, turning around triumphantly. He’s out of his pyjamas for the first time that week, dressed in a tracksuit that, although warm, isn’t Dimitri’s favourite of Tariq’s wardrobe. Tariq is showered and freshly scrubbed, and his eyes are clear. Unlike Dimitri, he’s well–rested. "It’s not soup," he says. "I broke out the emergency pasta. It’s the Masood Family’s world famous homemade spag bol."

Dimitri grins. "Lot of Italians in your family?"

"Enough," Tariq says, turning off the cooker. "Thought you might fancy something that doesn’t come in a can." He looks away. "Sounded like you were in the middle of a long day."

Dimitri nods, stepping forward to pull Tariq into a lingering hug. "You’re not allowed to be ill again," he says, aiming for light–hearted but falling short considerably.

Tariq squeezes him reassuringly. "Not even once?"

"No," Dimitri says. "Beth said so."

"What happened?" Tariq asks quietly.

"A whole lot of nothing," Dimitri answers, "that ended in a whole lot of paperwork." He sighs heavily as Tariq begins to rub circles into his back. "Sometimes this job feels like one continual merry–go–round, except you’re going the wrong way around and nobody bothers to tell you."

"You need to eat," Tariq says, pulling away, smiling at Dimitri’s small noise of protest. "That was a terrible metaphor."

"Shut up."

"No, really, don’t give up your day job. You’ll never make it as a writer."

Dimitri can’t help himself; he laughs, buoyed out of his bad mood by Tariq’s easy company. As Tariq ladles out the food, Dimitri sets the table, realising how much he’s missed him this past week, and how much easier the petty things are to handle when Tariq’s there to handle them with him.

"What are you thinking?" Tariq asks, already at the table. "Sometimes you go off on one and I can’t tell what you’re thinking." He fiddles with the cutlery. "You disappear on me."

He’s not being unkind, but his words cut Dimitri right to that ache in his lungs. He opens his mouth fruitlessly, unable to say what he means without giving himself away. How to tell another person that they have become the furniture of your life, sold, dependable, always there? How to say it and not sound trite? How to say it without it becoming this unwelcome thing between them?

Eventually Dimitri shakes his head and looks away. "I was thinking that spag bol had better be worth the wait."

Tariq waits for more, then visibly decides to let it go. He hides his disappointment well, but Dimitri still catches a flash across his face. Sorry, he thinks, trying to force the words out of his mind and into his mouth, I don’t know why I can’t say it. I don’t know what stops me. "It’s worth it," Tariq says with a smile, changing the subject the way Dimitri wants to. "The Masood Family’s recipe is the best in all Italy!"

Dimitri is grateful, for the food, the warmth; for Tariq’s good nature that doesn’t push, even when he may be entitled to. He sits down across from Tariq and stretches his leg until he can hook his foot around Tariq’s ankle. Tariq looks up from his place, another smile on his face, this one softer and forgiving, taking Dimitri’s unspoken apology for what it is before tucking into his meal.

Dimitri watches him for a moment, then joins him. At the first bite he closes his eyes and gives a small groan of satisfaction.

"Yeah?" Tariq asks, face lighting up.

"Oh yeah," he says, laughing and fond, "that’s something else."

 

 

It doesn’t take long for Dimitri to decide that he loves Sundays the best. Lazy mornings in Tariq’s bed, unhurried sex, and then a whole day to do what they want. They have breakfast and then, after Dimitri has showered, Tariq will have his turn in the bathroom, and Dimitri will linger amongst Tariq’s things, picking up books, avoiding anything with wires, and generally indulging in the quiet chaos of Tariq’s life.

This Sunday, when Dimitri emerges from the bathroom fully dressed, he finds Tariq cross–legged on the living room floor, wearing only his boxers and a headset, game controller in hand, jerking forward aggressively as he jabs at the button. He’s so engrossed in what he’s doing that he doesn’t notice Dimitri watching him from the doorway, face soft with fond amusement. Tariq sometimes seems very young, not having been very far from home his whole life, and now, half–dressed and muttering at his computer game, he looks a bit of a delinquent. Dimitri doesn’t know what to do with him when he’s like this, simultaneously gormless and lovely, smelling of sleep and sweat and sex.

Dimitri whips the towel he was using on his hair at the back of Tariq’s head to get his attention, which only musses Tariq’s bed head even more, and Dimitri laughs at the indignant look on his face. A minute later something blindsides him with a forceful thunk – what the hell is in those cushions? Dimitri wonders – and he turns to face Tariq, eyebrow raised in arch disbelief. Tariq has another two cushions to hand, and is grinning, a little defiant, a little manic.

"I don’t think you want to do that," Dimitri says, deadpan. "You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for."

Tariq shrugs, all limbs. "I’ve got a hundred or so cousins. I think I’ll do all right."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

There’s a beat before Dimitri lunges for the cushion Tariq had flung his way, spinning it back in his direction even as Tariq lets a second one fly into his chest. Tariq is laughing, stumbling backwards as Dimitri lunges forward and then the fight begins in earnest, Dimitri making ground across the room whilst Tariq gathers ammunition. With the wily strength of a small girl, Tariq forgoes strategy, attempting to land as many blows as possible. Dimitri can hear his laughter even as he tries to navigate the coffee table and Xbox without falling on his face; Tariq lands a surprisingly heavy blow to his side which is around the time Dimitri abandons the cushion in his grasp in favour of reaching forward to grab Tariq around the waist to hoist him into an effective fireman’s lift. Tariq protests loudly, delivering a quick blow to Dimitri’s backside, half laughing, half gasping, trying to squirm out of Dimitri’s firm hold. Despite his wiry frame, Tariq has all the heft of a man, as Dimitri abruptly remembers. He bats a hand behind him, eventually getting hold of Tariq’s remaining cushion and flinging it aside, hoping it doesn’t strike anything important, all the while making his way to the far side of the room and Tariq’s couch.

Scrambling too much for Dimitri to keep hold for much longer, Tariq pushes them both onto the sofa, cuffing his head lightly on the upholstered armrest. They fall spectacularly and without grace, Dimitri’s hand trapped beneath Tariq, the rest of him falling on top. They both grunt at the impact, Dimitri lying prone over Tariq who is still giggling. Grinning madly, Dimitri tickles him, running his fingers through the hair on his abdomen, stopping only when Tariq’s flailing threatens to throw him off. "Tickling is cheating!" Tariq gasps out, his breath tickling Dimitri’s ear before he runs his teeth along the line of Dimitri’s jaw.

Dimitri shivers in response, pulling away to hold his hand out to Tariq who is pouting in objection. "Come on. Let’s go somewhere more comfortable." Later, pressing Tariq firmly into the mattress, his skin feverish and his pulse racing, Dimitri wonders what it would be like if all his days were Sundays, and the thought sets something alight in him. Tariq’s hands are wound in Dimitri’s hair, longer now that he’s decided to grow it out, and his legs are hoisted onto Dimitri’s shoulders, his back contorted in an arc as he strains to meet Dimitri’s lips. The kiss is a mess of teeth and lips grazing, more a sharing of breath than anything else. Tariq’s eyes are heavy–lidded, and Dimitri nuzzles at his face, asking him to open up, to let go, to let Dimitri see, please, Tariq, open your eyes, open—

He comes with a full–body stutter, Tariq tugging frantically at his own cock, eyes locked on his as his orgasm spills between them. Gently lowering Tariq’s legs, Dimitri rolls to one side, exhausted but happy, the rapid stutter of his pulse fading to a lull. Looking across at Tariq, he catches his eye, and they both grin, bodies sore with good effort and slick with sweat and semen. Yeah, he thinks, his muscles loose with satisfaction, he definitely loves Sundays.

 

 

In mid May, Dimitri has to go to Surrey for his niece’s birthday, and he sets off early, Tariq still in his bed, sleep rumpled and objecting at Dimitri’s departure with his whole body. "Just another minute," he whispers against his lips, one arm slung lazily over Dimitri’s shoulders; he’s trying to pull him back into the bed, but Dimitri laughs, disentangling himself from the haphazard embrace. "Let yourself out," he whispers into Tariq’s hair, dropping a kiss there. "I’ll see you in a couple of days."

"Text me."

"I will."

He spends the next two days in amongst family, startled at how tall his niece is now, how blonde his sister’s hair is; how, despite all this, nothing has really changed. His mother hugs him fiercely, takes his face in her hands and looks at him appraisingly before kissing him on both cheeks and hugging him again. "Don’t you eat? Let me get you a plate. You’re so thin. You need a girlfriend," and so on, disappearing into the kitchen. Eleni raises a wry eyebrow in his direction. It’s not that Dimitri’s family doesn’t know his preferences, just that they don’t deem them relevant, especially as he’s as likely to date a woman as he is a man. He thinks of Tariq as he was this morning, rolled up in the bed sheets, warm and close, and tries not to think what his parents would say if he brought him home to meet the family. It leaves a leaden feeling in his stomach.

"Mum—" he hears his sister protesting, "he’s not going to eat all that," and looks up in time to have a plate heaped with food shoved unceremoniously in his direction.

"He’s hungry—"

"No one’s that hungry!"

And so on. Dimitri sneaks away into the living room where his father and uncle are engaged in a heated debate. His father acknowledges him with a nod and a warm smile. "Son."

"Hey, Dad."

"You’ve seen your mother, then?" he asks, nodding at the plate in Dimitri’s hand and laughing. Well, Dimitri thinks, pulling a face, she’s certainly seen me.

The afternoon passes in a haze of noise and other people. His aunts are in full force, food on almost every surface, and Eleni’s in–laws are there, too, loud and laughing. Dimitri volunteers to help put up the marquee outside and finds himself with his cousin and Eleni’s husband, trying to work out which poles go together in which direction. For a little while they’ve got the canopy inside out, but once that’s sorted, Dimitri gives the construction – if it could be called that – a once over, works out where they’ve gone wrong, and sets to work fixing the mess. His brother–in–law takes instruction with good cheer, which is for the best, Dimitri concludes, seeing as Eleni doesn’t.

As his niece blows out the candles on her cake – five years old already? – he feels his phone vibrate and steps out of the room to check the message. It’s Tariq, of course, and innocuous, but it makes him grin nonetheless.

"Uh oh." He freezes, caught out. "Someone’s got news." It’s Eleni, heading to the kitchen for more plates.

"What’s that?"

"Oh, don’t give me that," she says, arms laden with crockery and cutlery. "We’ll talk later."

"Ellie—"

"Don’t you ‘Ellie’ me. We’ll talk."

Which is how, at the end of the day, he finds himself in the garden with his little sister, drinking beer and trying not to talk about Tariq. It’s been a long day of it, being around his family, fending off their well–meaning questions, and trying not to imagine having Tariq with him. How would his mother feel? Would she pile up his plate the same as everyone else? Would his father clap a square hand on Tariq’s back in welcome? Would his cousins pull him into their good–natured arguments, or would he sit to one side, looking in from the outside? And what would Tariq make of the noise and the mess? How similar would it be to what he already knows? They’ve spoken about their families before and from what Dimitri recalls, Tariq’s family is just as big, if not bigger, albeit more conservative, and less prone to hog roasts. Would they be able to match up the Levendis’ Orthodoxy to the Masoods’ Islamic practices? Neither he nor Tariq are particularly religious themselves, but Dimitri knows the pull of tradition well; knows how it can bind you to a position you might otherwise find untenable.

"Wow," Eleni says, interrupting his rapidly spiralling thoughts, "this one’s a big deal, then?"

Dimitri shakes his head, unwilling to show his hand, but he should know better than to try to fool his sister. "I don’t know what you—"

"Oh, shut your face, D. If you spent any more time glued to that phone of yours I’d think it was part of your hand." She shakes her head at Dimitri’s continued blustering. "Lighten up. You brood any more and your head will implode. I can hear you thinking from here." She kicks back, resting on her elbows and making the most of the uncharacteristically warm evening. "A fella, then?"

"It’s like you never learned English—"

"Shut up – is it?"

Dimitri nods, unable to look Eleni in the eye. He doesn’t know why he’s so reluctant to talk about it – about Tariq. It’s not like his sister hasn’t met his previous boyfriends and girlfriends. Not that there’d been many; the SBS had put a dampener on his social time. He thinks Tariq would like Ellie, that they’d be taken in by one another’s good humour. He can picture them swapping embarrassing stories about him, and he winces at the thought.

"So," Eleni says, with the tone of a woman who has a five–year–old and knows to be patient, "where did you meet him?"

"At work."

"I see. Cute?"

" _Yes_." Dimitri tries not to grin at that. It was his first thought, watching Tariq try not to get frustrated with some tech that wasn’t doing what it was supposed to do. He’d sighed heavily, sending his hair up from his face, and all Dimitri could think was how completely lovely he was.

"He Greek?" Eleni asks with a knowing smile.

Dimitri looks at her sideways. "What do you think?"

"File that under ‘possibly’—"

"Not Greek."

"Not Greek." Her smile softens as she takes in her brother’s face. "Been going on a while, I take it?"

Dimitri shrugs. It’s been months, of course, but how to explain that without seeming unkind? He only has a few secrets from Eleni that aren’t classified. But how to explain to her how fragile this thing with Tariq had seemed – how it still seems that way sometimes, despite the fact they’re practically living in one another’s pockets these days? It’s not that Tariq is a guilty secret, just that Dimitri feels selfish and greedy, and wants to keep him to himself. Inviting others in to what they have will invite trouble; of this he’s certain.

When it becomes apparent that he’s not going to answer, Eleni takes another swig of beer. "Do I get to meet him, or is he going to be another one of those things where we only find out from the neighbours years after the fact?"

She’s talking about the manner in which Dimitri had been outed, by old Mr Polinski next door who’d caught him rolling around the living room floor with a friend from the cadets when he was seventeen, and gracelessly let the news slip one Easter a couple of years later when Dimitri had brought a girlfriend home from uni over the break. "Done with the boys now, are you?" Polinski had winked. "This lady of yours is much prettier." Of course, his mother had wanted to know what the old man was on about and before Dimitri could stop him, the whole thing came out over Easter lunch, in front of his grandparents, aunts and uncles, and friends from the community. Needless to say his girlfriend stopped being his girlfriend a few hours later when her father came by to drive her home – over half the country away. He wants to avoid spectacle like that for the rest of his life if he can. Again, the image of Tariq and Ellie laughing together springs to mind. It’s not terrible, as ideas go, but something about it still makes his stomach tense. "I don’t know. Eventually I want—" he stops, rethinks his words. "Not yet."

"But eventually?" she prompts.

"Eventually. I hope."

Eleni sits up with a sigh, jostling his shoulder playfully on the way up. "Just—don’t be such a stranger, D. Pick up the phone every once in awhile. And," she adds, poking him in the side, "whoever this guy is, let him in. Not everything in life is red tape. Don’t make him jump through hoops, okay?"

Dimitri smiles, genuinely grateful for his sister’s good intentions, and gives a small nod.

The peace is broken abruptly by the sound of five–year–olds shrieking, the garden suddenly overrun by his niece and his cousins’ children. Before long both he and Eleni have been dragged to their feet and drawn into a game of chase that Dimitri doesn’t quite understand the rules to. Half an hour later, Eleni calls for a ceasefire, citing bed time as the cause, and Dimitri swings his niece onto his hip before heading back indoors.

"You have a good day?" he asks, carrying her up the stairs.

"I had a _lovely_ day!" she exclaims, making him laugh. "Did you have a good day, Uncle D?"

"You know what?" Dimitri asks conspiratorially, feeling warm, well–fed, and much loved, "I really, really did."

 

 

He doesn’t leave for London until mid-afternoon on Sunday, not quick enough to miss the traffic, but late enough for his mother to pack him a week’s worth of food. He texts Tariq on the road home to let him know he’ll be later than anticipated and receives an invitation over in reply.

By the time he reaches Tariq’s place it’s beginning to get dark. He wonders if he should have picked up food on the way, but remembers all his mum’s cooking in the backseat. Grabbing the carrier bag on his way out, he heads into Tariq’s building, skipping the lifts in favour of the staircase. Checking his phone he sends a quick text to Eleni to let her know he got back in one piece, then takes a look at the messages he’s received. One is from Beth, inviting him for drinks with her and Ruth, a weekly invite that Dimitri and Tariq sometimes take up, though he suspects that won’t be the case tonight. He makes a mental note to ask Tariq.

The second message is from Tariq. Dimitri pauses on the third floor, one more flight to go before he reaches Tariq’s door. When he opens it, it says ABORT, in full capitals, with no added explanation. Looking at the time stamp, he realises it was sent in the past twenty minutes.

Frowning, Dimitri deliberates. It’s not a coded message, so presumably Tariq’s not in any trouble, and anyway, Beth’s text seemed blithely unconcerned. And yet—

Dimitri takes the last flight of stairs at a quick pace, pausing outside Tariq’s door to listen for any sign of life within. When he can’t hear any, he begins to panic. He checks himself for weapons – none, of course. Who carries one off duty? Looking around the hallway he doesn’t find anything that can help. Still not hearing anything from inside the flat, he curses himself for not bringing the key Tariq gave him. He’s still in the habit of leaving it in the drawer at work, self–conscious about putting it on his keyring. He considers texting Tariq but if he’s under duress, it might make things worse for him. Worst–case scenarios begin to zip through his mind – Tariq held hostage, Tariq being beaten, Tariq bleeding, dying, dead—

Taking a step back, Dimitri makes to kick at the hinges when suddenly the door swings open and he comes face–to–face with a diminutive Asian man, dressed in a heavy overcoat that makes him appear even shorter than he is. His beard is salt and pepper, but his hair errs more towards salt. Catching sight of Dimitri, who must look alarmed, the gentleman pauses on the threshold to the flat, one hand on the doorjamb. "Yes?" he asks, his voice very slightly accented, the mark of someone who’s been in the country a long time. "May I help you?"

Dimitri is saved from answering as the door swings fully open to reveal a distinctly uninjured Tariq. He looks anxious, albeit in one piece. "Uh, Dad. This is my friend from work, Dimitri. Dimitri, my dad, Maajid Masood."

Tariq’s father gives a wide smile and grasps Dimitri’s hand in both of his, shaking it generously. "Hello, hello. You work in software design as well? You do not look like a computer fellow, yes, yes, pleased to meet you, Mister Dimitri."

"Uh, _Dimitri_ ," Tariq says, pulling his father away from Dimitri’s hands.

"I’m sorry," Dimitri says at last, "I didn’t mean to interrupt."

"No, no," Maajid says pleasantly, "I am leaving. I am sure you boys have business to discuss. Or the Xbox, yes?" He pronounces ‘box’ with especially weight. "No, no, I am going. Tariq!" Launching into a stream of Urdu, the man takes Tariq’s face in both of his hands and pulls him down to kiss him on both cheeks before waving at Dimitri and leaving.

There is a moment of silence as Tariq and Dimitri assess one another. Tariq still looks caught out; Dimitri is confused and taken aback by whatever it is that’s just happened.

It’s Dimitri who breaks the silence. "What—?"

"Sorry," Tariq interrupts, "I’m so sorry."

"Your text—"

"—I know, I just wasn’t expecting—"

"—I thought something was wrong—"

"—and he just turned up—"

"I nearly kicked the door in! On your dad!" He runs a hand through his hair, the adrenaline making him slightly hysterical. "What—?" He gives a humourless laugh, falling against the far wall, his hands on his thighs. "Tariq. What the hell?"

Tariq looks stricken. "Come inside," he says, holding the door open. "Let me get you a drink."

Whilst Tariq disappears to the kitchen, Dimitri all but falls onto the sofa. When Tariq re–emerges, he has a pint glass full of water which he sets down on the coffee table next to one of his game controllers. There’s no coaster, of course, and Dimitri thinks distantly of the water mark that will be left. He takes the glass, managing to drink about half of it before starting to laugh in earnest. There’s a beat before Tariq joins him, though with considerably less gusto. He still looks worried, and all Dimitri can think is, I want to be a part of your life and I nearly kicked a door into your dad’s face. The more he thinks about it, the more he laughs, feeling the hysteria bubble up inside him until he has to put the glass down or risk losing it to Tariq’s god–awful rug.

Eventually the laughter trails off. Tariq remains across the coffee table, too far away to be of any use to Dimitri. Come closer, he thinks, I can’t touch you all the way over there. Out loud he says, "What was that about?"

Tariq shakes his head sadly. "I’m sorry. I panicked. That’s now how I’d want things to go."

Dimitri frowns at the choice of tense; Tariq’s reticence begins to make more sense. "Did you just introduce me to your dad as your friend from work?"

Tariq has the grace to look abashed. "Technically not incorrect," he says, but his voice wavers, uncertain. At Dimitri’s horrified look, he winces, aggrieved. "Yes, I introduced you as a friend. Dimitri, I can’t—" He looks helplessly at his hands, spreads them in an uncharacteristic gesture of remorse.

Dimitri had known, of course, on some level that Tariq probably couldn’t confide in his family. He knows his circumstances are not the same as Dimitri’s, save for the superficial details. Tariq doesn’t have a sister to chide him; instead he has dozens upon dozens of first cousins, people he told Dimitri were as close to him as siblings, but even that isn’t the same. Dimitri’s family is big, and close, and always in everybody’s business. Tariq’s sounded much the same, except there was a reticence to talk about certain things. The men and womenfolk tended to keep separate at mealtimes – something unheard of in Dimitri’s family – and there was less physical intimacy. Small, subtle things that made all the difference. But it didn’t change the fact that Dimitri had spent two days thinking of Tariq in amongst his family whilst Tariq couldn’t – wouldn’t – do the same. It was a heavy blow; as selfish as it is, and as slow as he’s been to get used to this relationship, Dimitri wants more.

"Is this how it’s going to be all the time?" Dimitri asks at last. "Every time someone comes to see you I get chucked out, or locked in the bathroom, or—" The idea makes his stomach roil.

"I can’t come out to my parents," Tariq says, face taut with misery, "I just can’t. It would wreck them. Mum’s still waiting for me to find a ‘nice girl’ and get married. It’s not – with my people, we don’t—" He breaks off, stepping closer, kneeling so he can look at Dimitri’s down–turned face. "You have to know that I don’t want anything – any _one_ else. You are it for me."

"But I’ll always be something you’re ashamed of. No," he stops Tariq from cutting him off, "that’s what you’re saying. That’s how it will have to be."

"Everything in my life is a secret," Tariq says with a half–hearted shrug. "What’s one more thing?"

It’s the wrong thing to say and Dimitri can tell by Tariq’s face that he realises it immediately. He has to get out. He has to leave. He can’t be here – can’t be around Tariq – right now.

Dimitri stands quickly, knocking into the table as he does, and Tariq startles, gets to his feet, hands held out abortively. "Dimitri—"

But something has come loose in Dimitri’s chest, some shocked sadness that he doesn’t know how to quell, and he has to be somewhere that isn’t here. "There’s food," he says, belatedly remembering the bag his mother had packed. "Compliments of the Levendis–Constantinides family. I’ll see you at work." When Tariq face crumples in protest, Dimitri holds up a hand, physically willing him not to speak. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, and manages to lower his voice from its more frantic pitch. "I need to go home, Tariq. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Just— let me digest this, okay?"

He leaves it at that, taking the stairs at an almost run. When he gets into his car, he fancies Tariq is looking at him from his window, but keeps his own eyes resolutely down, and doesn’t check. As he pulls away from the kerb, he tries not to think about the past twenty minutes, focusing on the familiar motions of navigating the traffic instead. Less than twenty–four hours ago he was sitting in his sister’s garden feeling the disparate strands of his life begin to come together, and now he’s driving away from Tariq, wide awake to the reality that they can never have that – that what he and Tariq are, whatever that is, will never be what he hopes for.

 

 

On Monday Dimitri is already at his desk reading the weekend’s sit rep by the time Tariq arrives. They share a glance – Tariq raises his hand in greeting; Dimitri gives a curt nod before Harry is calling the briefing and Tariq has to rush to put down his gear. Beth raises a questioning eyebrow Dimitri’s way, but he feigns ignorance and pick up his pace on the way to the conference room. Tariq ether doesn’t warrant an invite or has been tasked with something more pressing, but Dimitri can’t pretend he isn’t relieved not to have to face him properly just yet.

The finer points of not fucking up Israeli–Palestinian peace talks occupies his attention for the next hour, then he and Beth set to work on building their legends. Or rather, Beth does; Richard Fox is a cover Dimitri has used before, albeit on a smaller scale. Beth’s cover, Sarah Clayton, needs to be constructed from scratch. Beth’s talent is for absorbing a role, something which has proved invaluable since Lucas convinced Harry to bring her onto the team, but if there’s anything Dimitri understands it’s red tape for red tape’s sake. They spend the majority of the morning fact–checking their legends and poring over the floor plans of the hotel where the covert talks are scheduled to take place. By lunchtime they have a good grasp of the basics – their respective details, their covers, the hotel, and if Dimitri’s eyes never stray from the work at hand to Tariq’s corner of the grid, then he’s the only one who pays that fact any mind.

 

 

It proves to be a longer week than he has prepared for when, even before entering Anna Cohen’s hotel suite, Dimitri’s cover is exposed. He wonders if he’d given himself away, but shortly concludes that Mossad has always been ruthlessly ahead of the game on the subtleties. He briefly wonders if Beth is faring any better with the Palestinians and decides it’s unlikely.

Anna Cohen is not what Dimitri had expected. She is formidable, yes but she shows more interest in him than he’d anticipated for someone who was out to forge peace in this unlikely setting. Keeping an eye on her and answering her idle curiosity provides Dimitri with ample distraction from his own relatively mundane concerns. Sure, he’s having some sort of emotional crisis, but at least his father never left him to the mercy of torturers in the name of a greater good that never transpired.

It’s been two days since he left Tariq’s flat – two days since he good as promised Tariq that they would talk properly about their future, but the opportunity has yet to arise. Monday was taken up with preparations for the talks, and when Dimitri left at 8pm for an early night, Tariq was still working on the surveillance feed he and Ruth would be using to monitor the hotel from the grid. Dimitri, glad of the excuse to postpone the inevitable, had left without saying goodbye.

He still doesn’t know what he wants from Tariq, just that what he is offering may not be enough. He’s not sure he wants to introduce Tariq to his family, even after the events of the weekend, and he doesn’t know that he wants the same from Tariq. He knows that Tariq’s panicked dismissal had hurt him but, really, what is Dimitri asking for? Neither of them has promised the other anything. Neither one of them has truly asked anything of the other.

The increasing weight on Dimitri’s lungs is not something he can afford to interrogate at the moment, so he buries all of it – his hurt, his confusion, his worry that he can name that unspeakable tightness in his chest – and keeps a close eye on Anna Cohen instead.

As a result, it isn’t until later that evening that Dimitri finds out what transpired on the grid earlier in his absence. He returns to Thames House to check in his comms and get briefed on the political lay of the land. He’ll return in the morning to check out the comms again, and hear if there have been any developments overnight. It’s mostly dark on the grid when he stops by his desk to pick up his keys and check for messages. He’s musing over an unclear summons from Section F when passing footsteps slow and come to a stop behind him.

"How did it go today?" Ruth, then, who despite her sometimes–pointed glances at the clock, is still haunting the office.

"No bloodshed," Dimitri says, settling against the desk, "yet. The Israelis at least know who’s sitting on them."

"Ah, yes," Ruth says, her fingers worrying at her own grasp. "Heard about that. I daresay the Palestinians have an inkling, too." She gives a shrug, almost offensive in its implication. "We were expecting it."

"I wasn’t," says Dimitri, but he softens the implied allegation with a smile. Someone might have mentioned something, he thinks, but then, maybe it’s something he should have been prepared for. There’s not much hand–holding in the Service, not past his first week at any rate. He tries not to take it personally; it’s not as though the military was big on babysitting either, but there the channels of communication were clear. If you didn’t know about something it was because someone hadn’t told you, not because you’d failed to work it out for yourself from passing hints. The dissemination of information, pertinent or otherwise, is not the Service’s strong suit, a point on which most of its members feel no small amount of pride.

"How are the Cohens otherwise?" Ruth asks, still wringing her hands. Dimitri has yet to work out if it’s a tell, a distracter, or a habit borne of comfort. When Ruth had first come to him, palms twisting frantically over wrists, he’d worried he was about to come in for some bad news. It was a month before he’d asked Tariq about it; Tariq had laughed. "That’s just something she does," he’d said. "There’s always so much going on, it probably saves time to just keep on with it rather than stopping and starting up again."

"I’ve not seen Cohen Senior too much – he and Harry have been sequestered in his suite." Ruth raises an eyebrow at Dimitri’s choice of words. "Anna Cohen is—" he pauses, gathering his thoughts. "She’s driven. She doesn’t give much away, but she wants what is best for her people."

Ruth glances away momentarily. "Dimitri—" she gives a humourless smile. "You sound...charmed."

He shrugs. "I am, I suppose. She is charming, in her own, cool, once–held–captive–by–the–enemy–and–now–emotionally–scarred way." He shrugs again, defensive. "She’s lost a lot and not seen much gain. I think she’ll do what she has to." He shakes off his suddenly contemplative mood, unwilling to probe his thoughts any further. "Anything exciting happen here?"

Ruth takes pity on him and goes with the change of subject. "Lucas chased a lead on a possible sniper. We’ve got some tech – Tariq’s working on it. Should have something for you tomorrow morning." She catches Dimitri’s sidelong glance at Tariq’s empty workstation. "I sent him home an hour a go," she says, answering the question he didn’t want to ask out loud. "It’s been a bit of a day for him. Lucas has been hard on him, and he’s been running the surveillance on the hotel, of course. And then there was the explosive in the laptop Lucas got off our suspect—"

Dimitri’s head snaps up. "What explosive?"

"Oh, no," Ruth gives a small laugh, "just a small charge in the battery. Lucas caught it before Tariq opened the cover, and it was fine. Really," she insists at the look on Dimitri’s face, "he’s fine. He did a whole afternoon of work after that."

Nodding, Dimitri gives a tight smile, settling back against the desk. Hours, he thinks, and no–one had said. In the Service even no news is bad news, and even if he weren’t avoiding Tariq, there’s no way he’d call him whilst he’s on the clock. Everything is fine, he tells himself. Everything is well.

Ruth updates him on a few more developments, not a priority next to the sniper, but titbits that could blossom into something horrendous given enough motivation. Afterwards he makes his way home and stumbles into bed, his mind buzzing over the talks, Anna Cohen and the stalemate he’s installed between himself and Tariq. He does not sleep well.

 

 

Two days later he has to talk Anna Cohen out of blowing herself up. He hasn’t been all wrong: Anna is prepared to fight for what she believes is right for her people, but what she believes and what the Service – Dimitri – thought she believed turn out to be two different things.

He ends up at The Nag’s Head, as per Lucas’ suggestion, sitting on a bar stool and staring at a pint of barely–touched bitter. He’d passed Beth on his way out and extended an invitation – she’d had about as much fun as he had the past few days – but for once she’d quietly declined. "I’ve got her," Ruth assured him. "Look after yourself, Dimitri."

So, there he is, looking after himself. He feels wretched, and more than a little stupid. He had lost friends and colleagues to IEDs in Iraq, and felt a growing hatred for whoever had put those trick boxes into the ground, but seeing Anna, and knowing why she wanted to do what he had stopped her from doing, only made him feel endlessly sad. "The desert is death," he’d once told Tariq, on being asked what his service had been like. He still thinks that, but for different reasons. He’s not sure there’s hope for the region. He’s not sure hope is enough.

Someone takes the seat next to him; he doesn’t have to look up to know that it’s Tariq, but he does anyway. The relief of having him close doesn’t pass Dimitri by unaware, but he does his utmost not to let it show on his face. "Hey," Tariq says, sounding as tentative as he had on Sunday night. Dimitri hasn’t heard him sound so young since they first met and Dimitri’s buzz cut had intimidated him. It sounds wrong. "How you feeling?"

An olive branch, then, though Dimitri feels it’s his right to call a ceasefire, not Tariq’s. But then he thinks about what he’s angry about, and thinks about Anna Cohen, and thinks how easy life was when someone would tell him exactly what to do and when. He misses the simplicity of that; he wants someone to tell him what to say to Tariq, what the magic words are that mean he understands and he hurts in equal measure, and he’s sorry, and he loves him.

He doesn’t know any better now than he did five days ago what it is he wants or what this stand–off is going to achieve, if anything. Dimitri has had a long week, and he is tired, and he wants to talk to Tariq about anything except what they should be talking about. So he shrugs in answer, offers to buy Tariq a beer, and buys him another when he’s done with his first. Tariq relaxes after that, the alcohol chasing away his inhibition, and sensing Dimitri’s mood keenly. He keeps up a steady stream of chatter until Dimitri has drunk enough to feel loose–limbed and warm.

They leave the pub at closing, Tariq the more sober of the two for once, and he manages to flag down a cab.

"Come with me," Dimitri says, drunk and shameless, and horribly lonely.

"Not tonight," Tariq says, gently prising Dimitri’s fingers from his shirt. "You’ve still got a full debrief tomorrow, and I think you’ve forgotten you’re still annoyed at me—"

"—no, I’m not—"

"—and I don’t want you to regret it in the morning." He puts a hand on Dimitri’s head, pushing a little to get him to duck into the cab. "We’ll talk tomorrow, okay? You can come over when you’re done at work, or I can come to you, and we can talk, properly. But right now you have to go home."

Dimitri objects, but some part of him knows that Tariq is right, so he settles soon enough, the absence of sobriety preventing resulting in him grumbling beneath his breath. Tariq must have told the cabbie his address and paid the fare upfront because the next thing Dimitri knows, he’s at the door to his apartment, struggling to get his key into the lock. Little git, he thinks, I carried him home, but eventually he makes it into the flat. He ends up stood in the middle of the living room, staring in resentment at the as yet unused DVD player on the floor beneath the television, now settled on a new coffee table which he’d bought specifically for the purpose. He’s been thinking of framing a picture of Eleni, or his niece, something to set next to the player to justify this useless piece of furniture in his useless cave of an apartment, and he ends up sprawled face down on the couch, staring annoyed at the useless DVD player before falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

 

"I’m sorry," Tariq says the next afternoon, before Dimitri fully opens the door. "I’m sorry I lied to my dad, I’m sorry I made you feel like you don’t matter to me, I’m sorry I waited all week to come here to talk to you." He looks as miserable as Dimitri feels. "Can I come in?"

Dimitri steps back, gestures silently to his living room, and Tariq shuffles in. Once inside he takes a step towards the couch and then sees to think better of it, stopping in the middle of the room, the way Dimitri had the night before. His fingers are wrapped in the strap of his messenger bag, and his hair is flattened from where his bike helmet had pressed down. The bike itself must be chained outside, Dimitri thinks senselessly. "Sit down," he says, not unkindly. "You want a drink?"

Tariq shakes his head, and, if possible, looks even more stricken, but he does sit down, pulling off the bag and setting it by his feet. Dimitri grabs a beer and sits down, too. A clear head would be better, but he needs the Dutch courage.

Before Tariq can apologise again, Dimitri holds up his hand. "It’s okay, Tariq," he says. "I mean, it’s not _okay_ , but, you know. I get it. I understand why."

Tariq’s face crumples, part relief, part sorrow, and Dimitri feels himself grow fond. "I am sorry," Tariq says again. "I wish I could be braver than I am but I don’t know— my parents, I don’t think they’d understand." He stops composing himself. "I tried, once, when I was fifteen—" He shakes his head. "It didn’t go well. My granddad thought I was being ‘unduly influenced’ at school," he adds, and Dimitri can almost see the air quotes. "He made my parents enrol me somewhere else, like, miles away. I had to take a bus and everything just to get there." Dimitri grimaces, thinking of his own coming out, and how easy it had been in comparison. Yes, Easter lunch had descended into utter chaos, and his mother had cried, openly bemoaning a lack of grandchildren even though he as sitting next to a girl he was sleeping with, regardless that she left later that night – but it had all ended when his father had clapped a hand on his back and said, "It’s okay, son. Eat your food." And that had been that. His mother had stopped wailing, and his sister had kicked him under the table, and life had gone on. He can’t imagine his family rejecting him, no matter how often he tried to put distance between himself and home.

Tariq is still talking, his speech faltering as he tries to take in a breath. "My uncle once told me, ‘the gays will be the first to burn in Hell,’ and when I suggested that maybe love didn’t warrant that, he started ranting and raving about the lack of moral fibre in today’s Muslim youth, and how my parents had failed me by not making me go to the mosque for Friday prayer." He swallows tightly. "I never told anyone after that. Not even one person. I mean, I stayed at home when I went to uni, because I went early, and yeah, okay, I met some guys, but, you know," he shakes his head, talking faster, "it didn’t seem worth it, to have people look at me like I’m bringing shame to my family just by existing, or like there’s something wrong with me because of how I feel, or—" He swallows again, halting his tirade. "I don’t want anyone to look at _you_ like that."

Dimitri cuts him off, taking Tariq’s hands in his own. He rubs a thumb across Tariq’s wrist, feeling his pulse racing; his palms are clammy, and his breath is coming in shallow pants. Dimitri waits until Tariq has calmed a little. "Your granddad, Tariq, your uncle – they don’t know what they’re talking about. Tariq," he says, insistently, "there’s _nothing_ wrong with you and there is nothing wrong with us. Nothing." Tariq nods, but Dimitri can see the veil of doubt his family has cast over him. "Your parents, though," he says, "they’ve never said anything?"

Tariq shakes his head, looking ready to protest, but Dimitri talks over him. "Then you don’t know. Tariq, listen to me, listen—" He waits for him to look up, thumb still rubbing circles into his wrist. "I’m not going to tell you to out yourself, but your dad seemed pleased – pleased you have a friend, pleased to see you healthy. He didn’t seem anything but happy. And," he adds, softer now, "he loves you. I could see it in his face. It was in his voice."

Tariq is shaking his head, mouthing no, no, but Dimitri forges on.

"Everything in my life is a secret one from one person or another, and I want—" He breaks off, uncertain, then starts again, voice low and firm with conviction. "I want to be able to hold your hand in public, or call you my boyfriend, or take you to my parents’ and introduce you to my crazy family, and I want to do all that and not be scared that you’re going to buckle the minute the phone rings, or your cousin turns up to grab something he left." He feels himself flushing, his face warm. "And I want you to be able to do all that, too."

The flat is quiet; a bus trundles past outside and someone somewhere shouts unintelligibly. London is beating briskly outside this room, but between Dimitri and Tariq there is only silence.

"What—?" Tariq is floundering. "I mean, what are you saying?"

"I’m saying, it doesn’t have to be now, or even all that soon, but eventually I want to be a part of all your life," Dimitri says. "There are secrets and half–truths and no second chances in everything we do at work, and I don’t want that between us." He stops, his hands beginning to shake. He wills himself not to lose his nerve, sliding his fingers between Tariq’s and holding him still. "This, between us, it should be honest."

Tariq doesn’t speak for a long while, but he doesn’t pull away either, and Dimitri has to force himself not to flee. He runs his thumb lightly across Tariq’s fingers, catching a little where he’s cut himself on something, maybe the laptop Lucas retrieved, or the boards that cover the servers. Dimitri has always loved Tariq’s fingers, the slim, long length of them, dextrous and littered with cuts from the hardware he works on. Dimitri’s own hands are square, calloused from dismantling and reconstructing firearms and explosives, and two years spent turning the door wheels on ships.

Tariq sighs quietly, a soft, aching sound, a little remorseful and a little relieved. And like that, the tension dissipates. In its place is a raw tenderness, something fragile but hopeful. Dimitri sits back on the sofa, pulling Tariq with him into his arms, and running a hand down his back, the other clenched desperately in his shirt. The heaviness on his lungs doesn’t dissolve but it suddenly comforting, not stifling, and he can name it to himself even if he can’t say it out loud. As Tariq curls up and into the embrace, he presses his face to Dimitri’s neck, whispering close and incredibly sweet. More apologies, and perhaps some promises, but Dimitri doesn’t need to hear them to know they are heartfelt and true. He rubs a wide palm over Tariq’s shoulder and hushes him kindly, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the only one carrying a weight on his chest.

 

 

–––

 

 

It takes over a year, but eventually Dimitri asks Tariq to move in. Of course, it ends in an argument. Tariq still isn’t out, but Dimitri had convinced him to meet with Eleni one weekend just before Christmas, and whilst it had gone well – almost too well, he thought wryly, remembering how the two had instantly clicked – Tariq didn’t seem any more inclined to reciprocate the act. Whilst they’re steadfastly not talking about it, Beth is fired for playing fast and loose with a brief she’d been given. The mission – to turn a Russian diplomat’s son – was a wholesale failure, with the boy being shot, and his security detail depleted in number. Dimitri had known from the start that Erin Watts was going to be a stickler for regulations, and he’s not sure he blames her after Lucas and Harry and the string of incredibly bad luck Section D seems to foster. But he feels badly for Beth who, despite her dubious moral foundations, had always been a team player, and whom he’d grown quite fond of.

Beth comes over that evening, ostensibly to get drunk, but mostly to let out her frustrations, and eventually confess her relief at midnight and the bottom of a bottle of vodka. Lucas’— whatever that was, has changed them all in different ways. Beth has lost her confidence, he realises. The Service has, funnily enough, failed to live up to her expectations. "He’d never have turned," she says, more to the table than to him. "He wasn’t what we thought." Dimitri doesn’t know if she’s talking about the diplomat’s son, or Lucas, but it doesn’t matter. Gone is gone. They shouldn’t strictly be talking right now.

They hear the key turn in the door; Tariq comes in, takes one look at the tableau before him, and starts making coffee, no questions asked. The three of them fall asleep in the living room, and in the morning, toast in hand, Beth leaves. They don’t see her again. Sometimes Dimitri resents her for it.

Tariq also has new company. Erin brings in Calum Reed from her previous Section, with no clear reason of why when Tariq is more than capable of shouldering the load. Reed shows certain off–hand competency, but he’s a lot of talk, too. Dimitri likes him well enough, but the first time Calum accompanies him on surveillance, he realises he has a limit to how long he can be in the same space with him without losing his temper. Calum shares Beth’s lack of discretion, but not her charm, and he sets something off in Tariq, too, who has reverted to nervous habits – ending statements as questions and constantly fiddling with things in reach of his hands. He no longer reclines in his seat, Dimitri notices, but when he asks about it, Tariq shrugs him off.

Dimitri makes a compelling argument in favour of them living together. It’s madness to rent two places when they only use one at most, and when both their landlords increase their rents, the practicality of sharing pushes him to ask what he’s been thinking about for some time. If they find a place together, Dimitri could pretend to be Tariq’s housemate. It isn’t an idea he loves, but they’d gone with something similar when Tariq’s cousin had come over one morning and found Dimitri eating breakfast. Tariq had gone quiet but Dimitri had lied easily – yes, bit too much to drink, mate, your cuz let me crash, yeah, we work together – until Tariq found his voice again and joined in the conversation.

They could cut down on cab fares by travelling together; on grocery costs by shopping together. And Dimitri wants Tariq to be near, wants the reassuring presence of all his things nestled in with Dimitri’s. He wants it desperately, thinks about it on end, and Tariq’s reluctance waters the seed of doubt in Dimitri that has been nestled there ever since the encounter with Maajid Masood.

They don’t outright avoid each other, but with the way work is distributed Dimitri doesn’t see Tariq about as often. Erin and Calum don’t ask because they don’t know any better, and Ruth is scrambling, trying to find out information on Harry’s tribunal whilst facilitating Erin’s move into his role. He wonders if she misses having Beth living with her – if Beth had given any indication of where she might have gone to – but he doesn’t ask. It never seems the right time.

The absence of attention leaves Tariq and Dimitri to act out their silent drama in private. The stalemate lasts a couple of weeks, during which time Dimitri feels wretched, and Tariq looks like he hasn’t been sleeping. As though aware of the scrutiny, Tariq looks up, catching his eye; the sadness in him is a physical thing, and Dimitri finds himself wanting to rub his thumbs across the bags under his eyes, smooth them back until they don’t look so bruised. But he’s a proud man, too, so he stays put in his seat. Later, when Tariq drops a flash drive on Dimitri’s desk and stalks wordlessly back to his work station, Calum notices, like a bloodhound catching a scent. "Lovers’ spat?" he jokes, and Dimitri gives a tight grin in reply, not willing to explain how close Calum is to the truth.

It takes a phone call from Eleni to snap Dimitri out of his fugue. "Tariq called me," she says, "he said you might need me," and the knot of disappointment in his chest loosens a little. He does need Eleni; he doesn’t like to talk things through with people – that not being his way – but his sister manages to pull information from him, thread by thread. Nothing is resolved by the time Eleni finally hangs up, but Dimitri has realised that either he puts his hurt aside, or he puts Tariq aside, and he knows the latter is something he cannot do. After he puts down the phone, he takes his time sorting out things around the flat – laundry, a few dishes, and so on - and then, leaning against the washer, he pulls his mobile from his pocket and calls Tariq.

"Hey, it’s me. You busy?"

An hour later, still talking, he opens his front door to see Tariq there, and then they both hang up, Tariq following Dimitri through to the living room where they fall onto the couch and talk, and talk, and talk. Nonsense topics, things they’ve read or seen, things that made them think of one another but that they hadn’t been able to share. They sit with their sides pressed together from shoulder to knee, Tariq’s hand on Dimitri’s leg, and Dimitri’s arm across Tariq’s shoulders, one hand buried in his hair, taking simple pleasure in one another’s company, as though they had previously forgotten how. The more they talk, the more Dimitri’s panic subsides until, without warning, it is gone, replaced with calm.

He cooks whilst Tariq makes a nuisance of himself, perpetually in the way, and then they eat, quietly, but still in conversation – about work, about Calum, about the news and what films are out. Tariq gets excited talking about some new tech Section B are working with, his hair falling into his face, his hands wide in their gestures. Overcome with fondness, Dimitri can’t help but sweep his hair back for him, his hand lingering on his face, glad that Tariq is there tonight.

"We don’t have to live together," he says, interrupting Tariq, suddenly able to put his decision into works. "We’re not ready."

Tariq drops his fork, face paling. "I’m—"

"It’s okay," Dimitri says, rubbing his thumb gently across Tariq’s cheek. "We can do this. I’m sorry I pushed you. Tariq, this, what we’re doing here—" He pauses, wanting to be understood. "You’re enough for me." He smiles, hoping to convey his depth of feeling.

Tariq breathes for a moment, uncharacteristically motionless, then laughs a little sadly, reaching up to take Dimitri’s hand in his own, and bring it to his lips for a small, chaste kiss. The gesture knocks Dimitri’s heart into his lungs, and the thought crosses his mind stupidly – what if Tariq had come here tonight as a last goodbye? What if Tariq had decided he couldn’t take the push and pull anymore, and it was better to put the whole thing to one side? Smile faltering, Dimitri grasps at Tariq’s hand, squeezing anxiously. "Tariq, please, I—"

Something of his thoughts must show on his face, because Tariq laughs again, shaking his head and pressing another kiss to Dimitri’s knuckles. "No, no, I just—" He takes a deep breath, rallying himself. "I have to go home in a few weeks. Will you come with me?"

Confused, Dimitri gives a half shrug. "Of course. What—?"

"No," Tariq says, pulling his hands away and rubbing his face. "Not to my place. I mean— to see my parents." It’s Dimitri’s turn to freeze, his mind wheeling on nothing. "Dad’s going to Pakistan to see my uncle, so I was going to go over to see him before he flies out." His gaze is unflinching. "I asked if it’s okay to bring you – well, to bring a friend, and Mum said it was fine so long as you like chicken, and I figured that wouldn’t be a problem. And Dad wanted to know who I had in mind, and I told them it would be you, and they seemed pleased. I guess. Dad thinks I don’t know any people." He says this last bit in a rush, as though forcing the words out before he loses his nerve. "So. I— you know. Did you want—?"

"Yes," Dimitri says, then again, firmer, "Yes, of course. I’d— I’d love that." He smiles, relief warring with disbelief, and the sad, anxious look on Tariq’s face dissolves.

They clear away the dishes, Tariq insisting on washing, and Dimitri with a towel. A small scuffle breaks out when Dimitri huddles close to press a kiss to Tariq’s ear and gets splashed for his efforts; he whips the towel at Tariq’s knees in retaliation, and for a short while the two of them trade light blows, Tariq spraying water indiscriminately, until Dimitri abandons the towel, his hands coming to rest on Tariq’s hips and turn him into another kiss. They finish the last of the washing up in a rush, Dimitri unable to resist pushing Tariq up against the counter and draping himself over his back, pressing his face into Tariq’s hair. Tariq groans when he shifts his hips, and Dimitri has to stop himself from rutting against him then and there. He pulls Tariq’s hands from the water, grabs the towel to dry them off, and pulls him to the bedroom.

Perhaps it’s the distance of a couple of weeks, or perhaps it’s Tariq’s words; or perhaps, Dimitri thinks, it’s something in him, but every touch feels pointedly precious. Tariq bites at his lips, running his tongue over them to soothe the hurt as Dimitri pulls them onto the bed. He runs his hands down Tariq’s back, shifting to let him fall between his legs, and is halted in his progress by Tariq taking hold of his hands and moving them lower to his buttocks, only letting go when he feels Dimitri squeeze firmly. Tariq sits up to take off his shirt as Dimitri pushes his hips forward, making them both groan. Undressing is a slow, happy task, one they find play in, Tariq pausing to press sloppy, wet kisses across Dimitri’s jaw, his chest, his stomach, and Dimitri reciprocating with fleeting touches to the soft skin behind his ear, fingers light across the ticklish spread of his ribs, making him squirm with laughter.

Dimitri loves Tariq’s neck, the stretch of tendons there, runs his teeth up to nip beneath his jaw, and rub his face against the stubble he finds there; loves, too, his long, nimble fingers. Tariq, he knows, is fascinated with the play of muscles on his stomach, and the fine hair on his legs, the heel of his hand pushing insistently at his hip when he wants Dimitri to roll over, or, as now, palms cupping beneath his knees, encouraging him to spread his legs further. There’s a moment before Tariq sucks his cock into his mouth when Dimitri looks down and flushes to see Tariq bent over him, his breath gusting over warm flesh – wonders a little at how different their skin is; tries not to thread his hands through Tariq’s hair and _pull_ – and then there’s Tariq’s mouth, hot and wet, a little teasing, the way he’s learned Dimitri likes it, and Dimitri stops thinking, grips the sheets and does his utmost not to thrust upwards.

It doesn’t take long for Tariq’s attentions to become too much of a good thing, and Dimitri makes him stop, pulling him up with a grunt, and kissing his bruised mouth, seeking out the corners of his mouth to taste himself. Tariq is almost frantic, biting at Dimitri’s lips with more enthusiasm than skill. With one hand in Tariq’s hair and one on his hips, Dimitri rolls them over, using his not inconsiderable girth to calm Tariq’s struggling; Tariq, who is speaking now, low words of encouragement, tugging ineffectually at any part of Dimitri he can reach, murmuring insistent pleas for him to please, please, Dimitri, move, do something, do anything, Dimitri—

Pressing Tariq’s hands up by his head, Dimitri holds them still as he lifts up and lowers himself on Tariq with purpose, hips rolling forward, the motion carrying through his body and down his limbs; Tariq makes a startled noise of pleasure, biting his lips to keep quiet; Dimitri rolls his hips again, presses his thigh firmly between Tariq’s legs, and pushes again, the third time more forceful. They pick up a rhythm of sorts, Dimitri determined to take his time, but distracted by Tariq’s slim chest, and all that skin, hot to the touch. Tariq is impatient beneath him, mouthing hungrily at his chin, and he feels dizzy with the force of his desire, the way he always does when this close to Tariq; their bodies rock in tandem, Tariq’s mouth open on a pant, his eyes half–lidded but roaming across Dimitri’s face. The want Dimitri feels manifests in touch as he lowers his face to nuzzle against Tariq’s, and he laughs as Tariq again tries to push back, gasping for breath and insisting on, "more, come on, more—"

Dimitri raises up to rest on his hands instead of his forearms, and moves in earnest, swapping both Tariq’s hands to one grip and reaching down to take hold of his thigh. Taking the hint, Tariq curls his leg over Dimitri’s hip, and the change in angle makes them both groan. Dimitri feels so _hot_ , his muscles straining with the work, and he doesn’t know, can’t remember how he got here, kissing Tariq again, and hungry for more. There’s more teeth than tongue as they move; he feels the collision all the way to the back of his skull, but doesn’t pull back, unwilling to separate more than necessary. Tension coils in his stomach; sweat gathers on his brow; in the small of his back. Tariq’s arms must be sore; he arches obscenely to press closer to Dimitri, no longer able to speak, now bending only towards climax.

Tariq comes when Dimitri reaches down between them, hand open–palmed, once, twice over his cock, then searching lower until he can run a finger over his arsehole. When Dimitri pushes a little, Tariq stills, then jolts, his body trembling for long moments as he spills wetly between them. Dimitri doesn’t stop, letting go of Tariq’s wrists, and rearranging them so that he can curl around Tariq from behind, pushing his cock between Tariq’s closed thighs, using his come to ease the way. Dimitri grunts with the effort, one arm around Tariq’s chest, and his free hand tight on Tariq’s hip; he rolls his hips, once, twice, a third time, and comes hard, spending messily between Tariq’s legs.

Afterwards they breathe heavily, trying to catch their breath, Dimitri pressing his lips to Tariq’s neck affectionately. He is languid, his limbs heavy and slumber–inclined, and Tariq seems happy to let him rest. When Tariq finally makes to move, Dimitri tightens the arms around his chest, and holds him still a little longer. "Wait," he whispers, kissing his shoulder, trying to prolong the moment. The sweat on their bodies is cooling; their legs are sticky and sore; Dimitri holds on to Tariq and doesn’t want to move, not yet, just wait.

Eventually, Tariq slips out of the bed. "Just a minute," he murmurs against Dimitri’s lips. He comes back with a damp towel and gently rubs at Dimitri’s cock and thighs, attentive and efficient. He swipes at his own legs, too, before tossing the towel aside – "You’ll have to get that in the morning," Dimitri jokes – and slipping under the covers, prodding at Dimitri until he does the same. They fall asleep like that, Dimitri’s face on Tariq’s chest, their legs tangled together, and Tariq’s fingers scratching tenderly over Dimitri’s scalp. It’s everything Dimitri wants and he feels grateful for it, suffused with contentment and glad for all that Tariq is willing to give.

 

 

He doesn’t meet Tariq’s parents.

Harry’s tribunal ends abruptly, and he returns to the grid, reshuffling their priorities once again. A familiar unease shifts over the Section – Dimitri remembers it from when Lucas had— died, and realises that despite the foundations rumbling beneath them, they’d not done too badly without Harry. Beth, of course, hadn’t done so well, but Ruth passes him an unsigned postcard, the front a picture of Prague at night, and the message reading, _Miss you – don’t wish you were here_. Reading it he agrees with Tariq that she seems the sort to have nine lives.

Erin proves oddly capable in the field, not any more relaxed there than in the big office, but focused and composed. Dimitri is impressed by her reserve, a little amused to find she has a sense of humour. He’s even more amused to find Harry incapable of reading Calum, although his face becomes pinched every time Calum proves himself too crass.

And yet, something is wrong – this much is clear. With Harry’s return to active duty comes his own brand of paranoia. Ruth looks tired, Dimitri thinks, as she trots between her desk, Tariq’s workstation, and Harry’s office. He does his best to return every favour Ruth has done him by buying her lunch when he goes to get Tariq’s, and asking Henry in the cafeteria to bring down a pot of tea every day at 4pm. If Ruth notices where the tea comes from, she doesn’t mention it, but Tariq does, and he is tactile with his praise. Between them they keep Ruth running, and Ruth, in turn, feeds them all the intel she can find. The negotiations with the Russians are shrouded in secrecy and misinformation, and Dimitri overhears more than one conversation with Towers where it seems like Harry is dragging his feet. He doesn’t like it, and Ruth definitely doesn’t like it which is enough to make Tariq wary, too.

It’s inevitable, then, that Tariq’s usual ineffability is broken when Calum is mugged of the briefcase containing the briefing to Six. Tariq takes all the tech problems personally – it’s part of what endears him to Dimitri – but with things the way they are on the grid, the responsibility of the secure names and the weight of their loss bears him down. When Calum runs his mouth, Dimitri wants to smack him in the teeth, but Tariq surprises them all but confronting the little shit. Dimitri tries not to examine the pride he feels too closely, but it fills him up regardless. Later, before heading out to support Erin, he stops by Tariq’s desk to leave a file, a Kit Kat and a cup of coffee, before squeezing Tariq’s shoulder in mute sympathy, and leaving.

It’s a fraught couple of days. Deep cover assets know the risks when they go under, but it’s never real until they’re face–to–face with the reality of their mortality. Dimitri’s the one who had to make John Grogan’s death look like a suicide, and it leaves him bitter the rest of the day, though he takes some pleasure in getting Calum’s hands dirty, feeling vindicated in his treatment of him when Tariq loses his patience later in the day. When Martha Ford’s details are unleashed on the web a day later, Dimitri spares a thought for Tariq before focusing on the task at hand – namely, pulling Ford from her office.

It’s stupid, really, the reason he goes home alone. He can see Tariq is still smarting over the lost files, even though their loss hadn’t in any way been his fault. When he goes to see him at the end of the day, it’s clear he’s not going to budge, and Dimitri is tired. "Don’t wait up," Tariq says, "I’m probably going to work on this at home." He’s running facial recog on CCTV footage, and Dimitri knows from experience that he won’t be deterred, so he throws a quick glance around the office before pressing a small, chaste kiss to Tariq’s jaw just to see him smile, and then he goes home.

And that’s the last of it.

It’s past midnight when he stumbles out of bed to answer the phone, stubbing his foot on the doorframe on his way to the living room. Half–awake when he picks it up, he almost drops the phone when Ruth tell him the news, suddenly wide awake but not trusting his ears. It doesn’t seem real, even though Ruth explains it to him carefully and in as much detail as she can, though the facts are threadbare at best.

"Dimitri? Dimitri, are you still there?"

"Which hospital is he at?"

Ruth is impossibly sad in her answer. "He didn’t go to hospital, Dimitri. He didn’t— he was—" She takes a deep breath, the sound breaking like static over the line. "There wasn’t need for an ambulance," she says at last, and Dimitri squeezes his eyes shut, still trying to put the information together, though it couldn’t be plainer than that. "Go back to sleep, Dimitri. There’s nothing more to be done now. We’ll know more in the morning."

"His family?"

"Have been informed. Tomorrow, Dimitri. We can talk about it more when you get in."

She hangs up when it becomes clear that Dimitri won’t, and for several moments, Dimitri is left listening to the dial tone. He gingerly returns the phone to the cradle, his heart knocking soundly into his lungs, only one thought in his head: Tariq is dead. Tariq is dead. Tariq is dead.

He makes it to the bathroom before retching. He flushes the loo, washes his hands, and washes out his mouth. His hands are shaking; leaning over the basin he catches sight of himself in the mirror. His eyes are bloodshot, and his skin is pale. His lips are chapped, and red from being bitten. His hair is longer than it’s been in years, Tariq telling him he wasn’t to cut it until he had his say–so. Tariq, whose own hair was thick and unruly, and whose face carried a perpetual five o’clock shadow, even after he’d shaved. Tariq.

Pressing his forehead to the cabinet above the sink, Dimitri takes a deep breath, then two more, trying to calm down. He should have insisted Tariq come home with him. He should have gone to Tariq’s place been there when Tariq got in. He should have pushed harder for Tariq to move in with him so there could be no choice of where he went when he left work, and Dimitri could be on hand for anything, for emergencies. Ha! Emergencies. This certainly classes as one.

It’s three in the morning when Dimitri finally goes back to bed, having wandered listlessly around the apartment once he’d washed up the bathroom. He lies on his side, facing out of the bed so that he doesn’t have to see the space where Tariq should be. His chest is tight with grief, and though he thinks it will never happen, that he will never sleep again, exhaustion finally takes over, and he falls back to sleep.

 

 

Things are no clearer the next day, or the day after that though it transpires that Tariq had found some sort of bug in all his hardware and he’d been killed on his way to Thames House by a fast–acting poison. Calum had found him on the front steps, choking; Dimitri hates him for it, even though it means that Tariq hadn’t been alone when he died.

Ruth tells him that Tariq’s body has been released to Mr and Mrs Masood, and that a funeral has already been arranged. Harry informs him that he’s been invited. "Mr Masood was quietly insistent you attend. He said Tariq spoke of you often, and he knew you to be good friends." It’s scheduled for the latter half of the week, and as no–one had known the true extent of his relationship with Tariq, Dimitri finds himself unable to beg off from the next assignment. He hates himself for it, too good at following instructions to protest, and later he hates the Service for what it asks of him those few days before Tariq is laid to rest. In the end it’s another day that ends with him in a room with someone who wants to kill himself, except unlike Anna Cohen, Dimitri can’t save Johnny Grier, or protect his sister from his death. He goes home sick of himself, and surprised by Erin’s second–hand Dear John. He wonders briefly how many she’s sent, or how many she’s received to know that this is what’s best. He doesn’t open the envelope – doesn’t send it. Just puts it in his coat pocket, the decision to be made later.

After the funeral, he sees Maajid Masood again. He looks so much older to Dimitri than the last time they met. His eyes are sunken into his face, great dark circles beneath the lids. He takes Dimitri’s hand in both of his, just like the first time, but doesn’t speak. All the life in him has gone the way of his son. When he finally turns to leave, he takes the hand of a short woman, dressed sombrely – Tariq’s mother, Dimitri assumes. This is not how he wanted this to go, he thinks. We should have had dinner last week, and you should be in Pakistan with your brother, and Tariq should be at his work station on the grid, spouting indecipherable explanations about his newest toys. Dimitri watches the couple walk away hand in hand, and wonders what dinner would have been like. Then he burrows his hands into his jacket pockets and sets off in the direction of home, Tariq’s family getting into cars that are parked all down the street.

 

 

Tariq’s apartment is hollow; Dimitri’s every footstep echoes off the walls. The vast majority of his things have been packed away into boxes, and Dimitri almost stumbles over two bin liners in the door to the lounge that are filled with Tariq’s clothes. Dimitri kneels, rifling through them until he unearths the long faded tee that Tariq liked to wear to sleep in. It’s threadbare with use, and there are small holes in the hem and collar. It feels too sentimental, but Dimitri knows he won’t be leaving it here to be thrown out. It’s not like it’s going to be of much use to anyone else.

Casting a quick glance around the front room, Dimitri feels the sadness in him echoed by nausea. Tariq’s many things, the tokens of his life which had so intrigued and endeared him to Dimitri, are gone, some in half–open boxes, others nowhere to be seen. His numerous game consoles are wrapped in their cables, set to one side next to the television. The old bookcase that only a week before had been fit to burst is now empty; the shelves dismantled and put to one side. There are no photos, and even Tariq’s computer terminal had been dismantled, the hard drive no doubt somewhere in the bowels of Thames House, and the monitors switched off and unplugged.

The living room’s unnatural emptiness has overflowed into every room, the bathroom divested of toiletries and recently cleaned; the bedroom devoid of wardrobes and Tariq’s chest of drawers, the mattress shorn of its sheets and the duvet which Tariq had been generous with whenever Dimitri has stayed the night. Here, too, there is nothing on the walls, not Tariq’s awful James Bond posters, or his photos. The hallway is still cluttered with the ugly prints the landlord had put up in an effort to make the flat seem homely. Now, more than ever, they seem tawdry to Dimitri; faded pictures of floral motifs and soulless, yawning landscapes. Dimitri hates them.

Lastly he meanders through the kitchen, the room which looks the least disturbed and most as Dimitri remembers. Someone has started to pack Tariq’s glassware, wrapping it in newspaper sheets and setting it aside to be boxed up. Dimitri checks the fridge for perishables, but it’s empty, and again, the shelves have been removed, although this time he can’t see where they’ve been stacked.

The fridge door has yet to be cleared, still covered in an assortment of day–to–day debris – takeaway menus, novelty magnets, Beth’s postcard. Dimitri unpins the card, and pockets it to keep. He’s about to head out into the living room again when something glossy catch the light, and he realises there’s something there, stuck beneath the menus. Pulling the faded papers away, Dimitri stills when he sees what it is. A photo, of the two of them, taken at Ruth’s birthday drinks a few weeks after Beth had joined them. They’re leaning into one another, grinning into the camera, their arms slung over one another’s shoulders. Tariq is half–pressed into the bar and Dimitri has an almost–full pint in his hand. They look happy, two friends having a good time, and it’s that which makes Dimitri clamour for a chair. They _had_ been happy, then, early on, and later too, right up to the moment he’d picked up the phone and heard Ruth at the other end of the line. And this is what they had to show for it: a photograph, and a soon to be empty flat. The photo is his now; the photo, the t–shirt, and Beth’s postcard, that’s all he takes, and he’s careful to close the door behind him when he leaves.

 

 

Ruth is waiting for him on the pavement, wan and tired. She keeps her eyes fixed below his face, her eyes flicking up nervously at intervals. "How was the funeral?"

"Lovely," Dimitri says, thinking again of the number of people who had been there and how all of them had loved Tariq. "Awful."

Ruth nods, swallowing and looking down at her hands. She had apologised earlier in the day, saying she didn’t think it would be right for her to attend as the Masoods had no idea who she was, and whilst Dimitri didn’t think that ought to matter, he hadn’t been in the mood to argue. Now he resists the urge to grasp her anxious hands and unfurl her fingers. "I’m sorry, Dimitri. I know— I know that you were... close."

Dimitri nods and looks away, unable to see the sadness on Ruth’s face. He’s not sure he can bear her grief as well as her own. It’s a sore point with him, the ability to sympathise but not empathise; it had been the same when he’d first joined Section D. Certain cases, certain names had held a censored quality, even though they were all over the case records. Nightingale. Jo Portman. Ros Myers. Tariq would flinch at either one, unable to help himself. It didn’t take Dimitri too long to work out why, though he never did learn how to respond to the silences in his stories, the gaps where Dimitri’s predecessors ought to have been. And then, after Lucas, he and Tariq – and Ruth and Beth in a fashion – had their own shared silence, weighted down with guilt and grief in equal parts. For a moment he had thought, well, that’s what it means to belong here. He and Beth had cleared out Lucas’ desk together, Tariq too bewildered to do more than watch from Dimitri’s table. When Beth had pulled out a chipped navy mug that was embossed with some sort of floral design on one side, they’d heard Tariq startle. "It’s Ros’ mug," he’d stuttered out, his face awash with sadness and confusion. "Wondered where that had gone," he’d said, mostly to himself. Dimitri had rarely felt so outside the loop as when Tariq and Ruth had got that look on their faces – the look that spoke of a loss he could never – would never – be a part of.

It’s the same now with Ruth. He feels outside whatever she is suffering, his own anguish gnawing at his lungs. And he feels selfish, too, not wanting to acknowledge Ruth’s misery in the face of his own which seems insurmountable. His hand at her elbow, Dimitri gently steers Ruth into walking with him. It’s a cool, dry autumn day, then sun falling lower in the sky and casting the city in a burnished glow. They walk together silently for a stretch, and Dimitri is glad of Ruth’s company. She is quiet, and her presence is a comfort.

"You could have come," Dimitri says at last, thinking about the funeral. "His parents wouldn’t have objected."

Ruth shakes her head vigorously. "I couldn’t," she says, looking down at her feet, then away into the distance. "I couldn’t face them. All his family, his parents—" Her voice breaks, and Dimitri realises with horror that she’s crying.

"Ruth, I—"

"I told him to go home," she says abruptly, holding her breath, and trying not to sob. "He said I knew, yes, that she’d just work at home? And I did, I knew that, but at least he’d be near his bed— Oh, god." She begins crying in earnest, quietly, but fevered nonetheless.

Dimitri, startled, and awkward, and so, so sad, pulls her into a fierce hug. "This is not your fault," he says, scrambling for the right words. "God knows he’d have slept under his desk if you left him there. You know what he was like." He hates this past tense, and feels Ruth recoil at his use of it. He rubs a soothing hand up and down her arm. They must be quite the picture, standing in central London, trying not to grieve out loud. "It’s not your fault," he repeats, "but we’ll find out whose it was. Ruth?" He pulls her away from his chest, and she nods, red–eyed, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket.

"Gosh," she says minutely, "I’m so sorry. I’ve ruined your coat." It makes Dimitri smile sadly.

"It’ll keep."

Ruth nods again, ticking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Heading home?" she asks.

"Yes. You?"

"No, onto the grid," she says, a little sheepish. "There are things that need to be done."

They part ways near Victoria, and Dimitri begins the slow walk home. When he gets there he’s going to call Eleni, and she will be angry – for Tariq, for him, _at_ him for not calling her sooner. Then she will badger him into talking about everything he’d rather bury, and maybe he’ll start to let go of this monstrous ache in his throat and in his chest. He doesn’t want to, not just yet, but tomorrow he has to go back into work, and there’ll be no quarter there. Eleni will understand, even if she doesn’t know the truth of what he does. She’ll talk him through cooking something for himself, and he’ll hang up when it becomes apparent that her family is settling down to eat too. She’ll offer to come over before she ends the call, or suggest that he come to stay with them, and Dimitri will lie and tell her that he’ll think about it. Then he’ll eat his dinner at the counter, not willing to sit at the table or on the couch with an empty seat beside him. He’ll probably leave the dishes and regret it in the morning. And then he will go to bed, and he will try to sleep, and in the morning he’ll have to start all over again, remembering Tariq is gone, and trying to live without him.

That will all come, later, or tomorrow, but for now he’ll drag his heels around the city, putting aside what’s yet to come, and trying to bury Tariq deep in his bones, in his gut, somewhere vital beneath his ribcage, never to be prised out by unkind hands.

 

 

It was only then  
that I could read the shadows that followed our words.  
It seemed that the whole planet was taking aim at our future.  
 **–– from richard jackson’s _message here_**

 

  
**end.**   


**Author's Note:**

> The notes for this fic were too long to fit here, so they can be found [here](http://tja-rama.livejournal.com/169875.html).


End file.
